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4.  \^- 


FLORENCE-AND 
IRVIN-SHUPP-JR 


MILL 
FLOSS  BY  GEORGI 
ELIOT 


YORK  AND  BOSTON 
THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  AND 
COMPANY  *  j*  &  &  jfi 


THE 


MILL    ON   THE   FLOSS 


BY 


GEORGE    ELIOT. 


IX  THEIR   DEATH   THET    WERK    NOT    DIVIDED 


NEW   YORK:   46  EAST  UTH  STREET 

THOMAS    Y.    CKOWELL    &    CO. 

BOSTON:  100  PURCHASE  STREET 


CONTENTS. 


HBoofe  I. 

BOY   AND    GIRL. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     OUTSIDE  DORLCOTE  MILL 1 

II.    MR.  TULLIVER,  OF  DORLCOTE   MILL,   DECLARES  HIS 

RESOLUTION  ABOUT  TOM 8 

III.  MR.  RlLEY  GIVES  HIS  ADVICE  CONCERNING  A  SCHOOL 

FOR  TOM 8 

IV.  TOM  IS  EXPECTED 21 

V.     TOM  COMES  HOME 26 

VI.     THE  AUNTS  AND  UNCLES  ARE  COMING 35 

VII.     ENTER  THE  AUNTS  AND  UNCLES 46 

VIII.     MR.  TULLIVER  SHOWS  HIS  WEAKER  SIDE     ....  67 

IX.     To  GARUM  FIRS 76 

X.     MAGGIE  BEHAVES  WORSE  THAN  SHE  EXPECTED      .     .  89 

XI.     MAGGIE  TRIES  TO  RUN  AWAY  FROM  HER  SHADOW     .  95 

XII.     MR.  AND  MRS.  GLEGG  AT  HOME 106 

XIII.     MR.  TULLIVER  FURTHER   ENTANGLES  THE  SKEIN  OF 

LIFE 117 


VI  CONTENTS. 

IBoofc  II. 

SCHOOL-TIME. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    TOM'S  "  FIRST  HALF  "    ...........  121 

II.     THE  CHRISTMAS  HOLIDAYS      .........  140 

III.  THE  NEW  SCHOOLFELLOW  ..........  147 

IV.  "THE  YOUN«  IDEA"       ...........  152 

V.     MAGGIE'S  SECOND  VISIT      ..........  162 

VI.     A  LOVE-SCENE  ..............  167 

VII.     THE  GOLDEN  GATES  ARE  PASSED    .......  171 


III. 
THE  DOWNFALL. 

I.     WHAT  HAD  HAPPENED  AT  HOME      .......  178 

II.    MRS.  TULLIVER'S  TERAPHIM,  OR  HOUSEHOLD  GODS  .  184 

III.  THE  FAMILY  COUNCIL    ...........  188 

IV.  A  VANISHING  GLEAM      ...........  203 

V.     TOM  APPLIES  HIS  KNIFE  TO  THE  OYSTER      ....  206 

VI.     TENDING     TO    REFUTE     THE     POPULAR     PREJUDICE 

AGAINST   THE    PRESENT   OF   A    POCKET-KNIFE     .       .       .  217 

VII.     How  A  HEN  TAKES  TO  STRATAGEM      ......  224 

VIII.     DAYLIGHT  ON  THE  WRECK       .........  235 

IX.     AN  ITEM  ADDED  TO  THE  FAMILY  REGISTER      .     .     .  242 

IBoofe  IV. 

THE  VALLEY  OF   HUMILIATION. 

I.    A    VARIATION    OF    PROTESTANTISM     UNKNOWN    TO 

BOSSUET     ...............  248 

II.     THE  TORN  NEST  is  PIERCED  BY  THE  THORNS       .     .  252 

III.       A   VOICE    FROM    THE    PAST    ..........  257 


CONTENTS. 


HBoofc  V. 

WHEAT   AND   TARES. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     IN  THE  RED  DEEPS 272 

II.     AUNT  GLEGG  LEARNS  THE  BREADTH  OF  BOB'S  THUMB     283 

III.  THE  WAVERING  BALANCE 299 

IV.  ANOTHER  LOVE-SCENE 305 

V.     THE  CLOVEN  TREE 311 

VI.     THE  HARD-WON  TRIUMPH 322 

VII.     A  DAY  OF  RECKONING .    .         .  826 


Boofe  VI 

THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION. 

I.  A  DUET  IN  PARADISE 333 

II.  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS 341 

III.  CONFIDENTIAL  MOMENTS 853 

IV.  BROTHER  AND  SISTER 357 

V.  SHOWING  THAT  TOM  HAD  OPENED  THE  OYSTER     .     .  364 

VI.  ILLUSTRATING  THE  LAWS  OF  ATTRACTION    ....  368 

VII.  PHILIP  RE-ENTERS 378 

VIII.  WAKEM  IN  A  NEW  LIGHT 390 

IX.  CHARITY  IN  FULL-DRESS 397 

X.  THE  SPELL  SEEMS  BROKEN 406 

XI.  IN  THE  LANE 412 

XII.  A  FAMILY  PARTY 418 

XIII.  BORNE  ALONG  BY  THE  TIDE 424 

XIV.  WAKING 437 


CONTENTS. 


HBoofe  VII 

THE  FINAL   RESCUE. 

CHAPTER  PAOK 

i.    THE  RETURN  TO  THE  MILL 447 

II.    ST.  OGG'S  PASSES  JUDGMENT 454 

III.  SHOWING  THAT  OLD  ACQUAINTANCES  ARE  CAPABLE 

OF   SURPRISING   US 462 

IV.  MAGGIE  AND  LUCY 468 

V.     THE  LAST  CONFLICT 474 

CONCLUSION ,  485 


BOOK    I. 

BOY    AND    GIRL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OUTSIDE    DOBLCOTE   MILL. 

A  WIDE  plain,  where  the  broadening  Floss  hurries  on  be- 
tween  its  green  banks  to  the  sea,  and  the  loving  tide,  rushing 
to  meet  it,  checks  its  passage  with  an  impetuous  embrace. 
On  this  mighty  tide  the  black  ships  —  laden  with  the  fresh- 
scented  fir-planks,  with  rounded  sacks  of  oil-bearing  seed,  or 
with  the  dark  glitter  of  coal  —  are  borne  along  to  the  town  of 
St.  Ogg's,  which  shows  its  aged,  fluted  red  roofs  and  the  broad 
gables  of  its  wharves  between  the  low  wooded  hill  and  the 
river-brink,  tingeing  the  water  with  a  soft  purple  hue  under  the 
transient  glance  of  this  February  sun.  Far  away  on  each  hand 
stretch  the  rich  pastures,  and  the  patches  of  dark  earth  made 
ready  for  the  seed  of  broad-leaved  green  crops,  or  touched 
already  with  the  tint  of  the  tender-bladed  autumn-sown  corn. 
There  is  a  remnant  still  of  the  last  year's  golden  clusters  of 
bee-hive  ricks  rising  at  intervals  beyond  the  hedgerows ;  and 
everywhere  the  hedgerows  are  studded  with  trees ;  the  distant 
ships  seem  to  be  lifting  their  masts  and  stretching  their  red- 
brown  sails  close  among  the  branches  of  the  spreading  ash. 
Just  by  the  red-roofed  town  the  tributary  Ripple  flows  with  a 
lively  current  into  the  Floss.  How  lovely  the  little  river  is, 
with  its  dark  changing  wavelets !  It  seems  to  me  like  a  living 
companion  while  I  wander  along  the  bank,  and  listen  to  its 
low,  placid  voice,  as  to  the  voice  of  one  who  is  deaf  and  loving. 
I  remember  those  large  dipping  willows.  I  remember  the  stone 
bridge. 

And  this  is  Dorlcote  Mill.  I  must  stand  a  minute  or  two 
here  on  the  bridge  and  look  at  it,  though  the  clouds  are  threat- 
ening, and  it  is  far  on  in  the  afternoon.  Even  in  this  leafless 
time  of  departing  February  it  is  t>leasant  to  look  at,  —  perhaps 


2  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

the  chill,  damp  season  adds  a  charm  to  the  trimly  kept,  com- 
fortable dwelling-house,  as  old  as  the  elms  and  chestnuts  that 
shelter  it  from  the  northern  blast.  The  stream  is  brimful  now, 
and  lies  high  in  this  little  withy  plantation,  and  half  drowns 
the  grassy  fringe  of  the  croft  in  front  of  the  house.  As  I  look 
at  the  full  stream,  the  vivid  grass,  the  delicate  bright-green 
powder  softening  the  outline  of  the  great  trunks  and  branches 
that  gleam  from  under  the  bare  purple  boughs,  I  am  in  love 
with  moistness,  and  envy  the  white  ducks  that  are  dipping 
their  heads  far  into  the  water  here  among  the  withes,  unmind- 
ful of  the  awkward  appearance  they  make  in  the  drier  world 
above. 

The  rush  of  the  water  and  the  booming  of  the  mill  bring  a 
dreamy  deafness,  which  seems  to  heighten'  the  peacefulness  of 
the  scene.  They  are  like  a  great  curtain  of  sound,  shutting 
one  out  from  the  world  beyond.  And  now  there  is  the  thunder 
of  the  huge  covered  waggon  coming  home  with  sacks  of  grain. 
That  honest  waggoner  is  thinking  of  his  dinner,  getting  sadly 
dry  in  the  oven  at  this  late  hour;  but  he  will  not  touch  it 
till  he  has  fed  his  horses,  —  the  strong,  submissive,  meek-eyed 
beasts,  who,  I  fancy,  are  looking  mild  reproach  at  him  from 
between  their  blinkers,  that  he  should  crack  his  whip  at  them 
in  that  awful  manner  as  if  they  needed  that  hint !  See  how 
they  stretch  their  shoulders  up  the  slope  towards  the  bridge, 
with  all  the  more  energy  because  they  are  so  near  home.  Look 
at  their  grand  shaggy  feet  that  seem  to  grasp  the  firm  earth, 
at  the  patient  strength  of  their  necks,  bowed  under  the  heavy 
collar,  at  the  mighty  muscles  of  their  struggling  haunches  !  I 
should  like  well  to  hear  them  neigh  over  their  hardly  earned 
feed  of  corn,  and  see  them,  with  their  moist  necks  freed  from 
the  harness,  dipping  their  eager  nostrils  into  the  muddy  pond. 
Now  they  are  on  the  bridge,  and  down  they  go  again  at  a 
swifter  pace,  and  the  arch  of  the  covered  waggon  disappears 
at  the  turning  behind  the  trees. 

Now  I  can  turn  my  eyes  towards  the  mill  again,  and  watch 
the  unresting  wheel  sending  out  its  diamond  jets  of  water. 
That  little  girl  is  watching  it  too;  she  has  been  standing  on 
just  the  same  spot  at  the  edge  of  the  water  ever  since  I  paused 
on  the  bridge.  And  that  queer  white  cur  with  the  brown  ear 
seems  to  be  leaping  and  barking  in  ineffectual  remonstrance 
with  the  wheel;  perhaps  he  is  jealous  because  his  playfellow 
in  the  beaver  bonnet  is  so  rapt  in  its  movement.  It  is  time  the 
little  playfellow  went  in,  I  think ;  and  there  is  a  very  bright 
fixe  to  tempt  her :  the  red  light  shines  out  under  the  deepening 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  3 

grey  of  the  sky.    It  is  time,  too,  for  me  to  leave  off  resting  my 
arms  on  the  cold  stone  of  this  bridge.  .  .  . 

Ah,  my  arms  are  really  benumbed.  I  have  been  pressing 
my  elbows  on  the  arms  of  my  chair,  and  dreaming  that  I  was 
standing  on  the  bridge  in  front  of  Dorlcote  Mill,  as  it  looked 
one  February  afternoon  many  years  ago.  Before  I  dozed  off, 
I  was  going  to  tell  you  what  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tulliver  were  talk- 
ing about,  as  they  sat  by  the  bright  fire  in  the  left-hand  parlour, 
on  that  very  afternoon  I  have  been  dreaming  of. 


CHAPTER   II. 

MB.  TULLIVER,  OF   DORLCOTE   MILL,   DECLARES   HIS   RESOLUTION 
ABOUT    TOM. 

"  WHAT  I  want,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  —  "  what  I 
want  is  to  give  Tom  a  good  eddication ;  an  eddication  as  '11  be 
a  bread  to  him.  That  was  what  I  was  thinking  of  when  I 
gave  notice  for  him  to  leave  the  academy  at  Ladyday.  I  mean 
to  put  him  to  a  downright  good  school  at  Midsummer.  The 
two  years  at  th'  academy  'ud  ha'  done  well  enough,  if  I  'd 
meant  to  make  a  miller  and  farmer  of  him,  for  he  's  had  a  fine 
sight  more  schoolin'  nor  /  ever  got.  All  the  learnin'  my  father 
ever  paid  for  was  a  bit  o'  birch  at  one  end  and  the  alphabet  at 
th'  other.  But  I  should  like  Tom  to  be  a  bit  of  a  scholard,  so 
as  he  might  be  up  to  the  tricks  o'  these  fellows  as  talk  fine  and 
write  with  a  flourish.  It  'ud  be  a  help  to  me  wi'  these  lawsuits, 
and  arbitrations,  and  things.  I  would  n't  make  a  downright  law- 
yer o'  the  lad,  —  I  should  be  sorry  for  him  to  be  a  raskill,  —  but 
a  sort  o'  engineer,  or  a  surveyor,  or  an  auctioneer  and  vallyer, 
like  Riley,  or  one  o'  them  smartish  businesses  as  are  all  profits 
and  no  outlay,  only  for  a  big  watch-chain  and  a  high  stool. 
They  're  pretty  nigh  all  one,  and  they  're  not  far  off  being  even 
wi'  the  law,  /  believe ;  for  Riley  looks  Lawyer  Wakem  i'  the 
face  as  hard  as  one  cat  looks  another.  He  's  none  frightened 
at  him." 

Mr.  Tulliver  was  speaking  to  his  wife,  a  blond  comely 
woman  in  a  fan-shaped  cap  (I  am  afraid  to  think  how  long  it 
is  since  fan-shaped  caps  were  worn,  they  must  be  so  near 
coining  in  again.  At  that  time,  when  Mrs.  Tulliver  was 


4  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

nearly  forty,  they  were  new  at  St.  egg's,  and  considered  sweet 
things). 

"  Well,  Mr.  Tulliver,  you  know  best :  I  've  no  objections. 
But  had  n't  I  better  kill  a  couple  o'  fowl,  and  have  th'  aunts 
and  uncles  to  dinner  next  week,  so  as  you  may  hear  what  sister 
Glegg  and  sister  Pullet  have  got  to  say  about  it  ?  There  's 
a  couple  o'  fowl  wants  killing  !  " 

"  You  may  kill  every  fowl  i'  the  yard  if  you  like,  Bessy ; 
but  I  shall  ask  neither  aunt  nor  uncle  what  I  'm  to  do  wi'  my 
own  lad,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  defiantly. 

"  Dear  heart !  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  shocked  at  this  sangui- 
nary rhetoric,  "  how  can  you  talk  so,  Mr.  Tulliver  ?  But  it  's 
your  way  to  speak  disrespectful  o'  my  family  ;  and  sister  Glegg 
throws  all  the  blame  upo'  me,  though  I  'm  sure  I  'm  as  innocent 
as  the  babe  unborn.  For  nobody  's  ever  heard  me  say  as  it 
was  n't  lucky  for  my  children  to  have  aunts  and  uncles  as  can 
live  independent.  Howiver,  if  Tom  's  to  go  to  a  new  school, 
I  should  like  him  to  go  where  I  can  wash  him  and  mend  him  ; 
else  he  might  as  well  have  calico  as  linen,  for  they  'd  be  one 
as  yallow  as  th'  other  before  they  'd  been  washed  half-a-dozen 
times.  And  then,  when  the  box  is  goin'  backards  and  forrards, 
I  could  send  the  lad  a  cake,  or  a  pork-pie,  or  an  apple  ;  for  he 
can  do  with  an  extry  bit,  bless  him !  whether  they  stint  him  at 
the  meals  or  no.  My  children  can  eat  as  much  victuals  as  most, 
thank  God !  " 

"  Well,  well,  we  won't  send  him  out  o'  reach  o'  the  carrier's 
cart,  it  other  things  fit  in,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  But  you 
must  n't  put  a  spoke  i'  the  wheel  about  the  washin',  if  we  can't 
get  a  school  near  enough.  That 's  the  fault  I  have  to  find  wi' 
you,  Bessy  ;  if  you  see  a  stick  i'  the  road,  you  're  allays  thinkin' 
you  can't  step  over  it.  You  'd  want  me  not  to  hire  a  good 
waggoner,  'cause  he  'd  got  a  mole  on  his  face." 

"Dear  heart!"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  in  mild  surprise,  "when 
did  I  iver  make  objections  to  a  man  because  he  'd  got  a  mole 
on  his  face  ?  I  'm  sure  I  'm  rether  fond  o'  the  moles ;  for  my 
brother,  as  is  dead  an'  gone,  had  a  mole  on  his  brow.  But  1 
can't  remember  your  iver  offering  to  hire  a  waggoner  with  ;: 
mole,  Mr.  Tulliver.  There  was  John  Gibbs  had  n't  a  mole  on 
his  face  no  more  nor  you  have,  an'  I  was  all  for  having  you 
hire  him  ;  an'  so  you  did  hire  him,  an'  if  he  had  n't  died  o'  th' 
inflammation,  as  we  paid  Dr.  Turubull  for  attending  him,  he  'd 
very  like  ha'  been  drivin'  the  waggon  now.  He  might  have  a 
mole  somewhere  out  o'  sight,  but  how  was  I  to  know  that,  Mr. 
Tulliver  ?  " 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  5 

"No,  no,  Bessy;  I  didn't  mean  justly  the  mole;  I  meant  it 
to  stand  for  sumniat  else  ;  but  niver  mind  —  it 's  puzzling  work, 
talking  is.  What  I  'm  thinking  on,  is  how  to  find  the  right 
sort  o'  school  to  send  Tom  to,  for  I  might  be  ta'en  in  again,  as 
I've  been  wi'  th'  academy.  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  wi'  a 
'cademy  again :  whativer  school  I  send  Tom  to,  it  sha'n't  be  a 
'cademy ;  it  shall  be  a  place  where  the  lads  spend  their  time 
i'  summat  else  besides  blacking  the  family's  shoes,  and  getting 
up  the  potatoes.  It 's  an  uncommon  puzzling  thing  to  know 
what  school  to  pick." 

Mr.  Tulliver  paused  a  minute  or  two,  and  dived  with  both 
hands  into  his  breeches-pockets  as  if  he  hoped  to  find  some 
suggestion  there.  Apparently  he  was  not  disappointed,  for  he 
presently  said,  "I  know  what  I'll  do:  I'll  talk  it  over  wi' 
Kiley ;  he 's  coming  to-morrow,  t'  arbitrate  about  the  dam." 

"Well,  Mr.  Tulliver,  I've  put  the  sheets  out  for  the  best 
bed,  and  Kezia  's  got  'em  hanging  at  the  fire.  They  are  n't  the 
best  sheets,  but  they  're  good  enough  for  anybody  to  sleep  in, 
be  he  who  he  will;  for  as  for  them  best  Holland  sheets,  I 
should  repent  buying  'em,  only  they  '11  do  to  lay  us  out  in. 
An'  if  you  was  to  die  to-morrow,  Mr.  Tulliver,  they  're  mangled 
beautiful,  an'  all  ready,  an'  smell  o'  lavender  as  it  'ud  be  a 
pleasure  to  lay  'em  out ;  an'  they  lie  at  the  left-hand  corner  o' 
the  big  oak  linen-chest  at  the  back:  not  as  I  should  trust 
anybody  to  look  'em  out  but  myself." 

As  Mrs.  Tulliver  uttered  the  last  sentence,  she  drew  a  bright 
bunch  of  keys  from  her  pocket,  and  singled  out  one,  rubbing 
her  thumb  and  finger  up  and  down  it  with  a  placid  smile  while 
she  looked  at  the  clear  fire.  If  Mr.  Tulliver  had  been  a  sus- 
ceptible man  in  his  conjugal  relation,  he  might  have  supposed 
that  she  drew  out  the  key  to  aid  her  imagination  in  anticipating 
the  moment  when  he  would  be  in  a  state  to  justify  the  produc- 
tion of  the  best  Holland  sheets.  Happily  he  was  not  so ;  he 
was  only  susceptible  in  respect  of  his  right  to  water-power ; 
moreover,  he  had  the  marital  habit  of  not  listening  very  closely, 
and  since  his  mention  of  Mr.  Riley,  had  been  apparently 
occupied  in  a  tactile  examination  of  his  woollen  stockings. 

"  I  think  I  've  hit  it,  Bessy,"  was  his  first  remark  after  a 
short  silence.  "  Riley  's  as  likely  a  man  as  any  to  know  o' 
some  school ;  he 's  had  schooling  himself,  an'  goes  about  to  all 
sorts  o'  places,  arbitratin'  and  vallyin'  and  that.  And  we 
shall  have  time  to  talk  it  over  to-morrow  night  when  the  busi- 
ness is  done.  I  want  Tom  to  be  such  a  sort  o'  man  as  Riley, 
you  know,  —  as  can  talk  pretty  nigh  as  well  as  if  it  was  all 


6  THE  MILL   ON    THE  FLOSS. 

wrote  out  for  him,  and  knows  a  good  lot  o'  words  as  don't 
mean  much,  so  as  you  can't  lay  hold  of  'em  i'  law ;  and  a  good 
solid  knowledge  o'  business  too." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "so  far  as  talking  proper,  and 
knowing  everything,  and  walking  with  a  bend  in  his  back,  and 
setting  his  hair  up,  I  should  n't  mind  the  lad  being  brought  up 
to  that.  But  them  Hue-talking  men  from  the  big  towns  mostly 
wear  the  false  shirt-fronts ;  they  wear  a  frill  till  it 's  all  a  mess, 
and  then  hide  it  with  a  bib ;  I  know  Riley  does.  And  then,  if 
Tom 's  to  go  and  live  at  Mudport,  like  Riley,  he  '11  have  a  house 
with  a  kitchen  hardly  big  enough  to  turn  in,  an'  niver  get  a 
fresh  egg  for  his  breakfast,  an'  sleep  up  three  pair  o'  stairs,  — 
or  four,  for  what  I  know,  —  and  be  burnt  to  death  before  he 
can  get  down." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  I  've  no  thoughts  of  his  going 
to  Mudport :  I  mean  him  to  set  up  his  office  at  St.  Ogg's,  close 
by  us,  an'  live  at  home.  But,"  continued  Mr.  Tulliver,  after  a 
pause,  "  what  I  'm  a  bit  afraid  on  is,  as  Tom  has  n't  got  the 
right  sort  o'  brains  for  a  smart  fellow.  I  doubt  he's  a  bit 
slowish.  He  takes  after  your  family,  Bessy." 

"Yes,  that  he  does,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  accepting  the  last 
proposition  entirely  on  its  own  merits;  "he's  wonderful  for 
liking  a  deal  o'  salt  in  his  broth.  That  was  my  brother's  way, 
and  my  father's  before  him." 

"  It  seems  a  bit  of  a  pity,  though,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  as 
the  lad  should  take  after  the  mother's  side  istead  o'  the  little 
wench.  That 's  the  worst  on  't  wi'  the  crossing  o'  breeds :  you 
can  never  justly  calkilate  what '11  come  on't.  The  little  un 
takes  after  my  side,  now :  she 's  twice  as  'cute  as  Tom.  Too 
'cute  for  a  woman,  I  'm  afraid,"  continued  Mr.  Tulliver,  turning 
his  head  dubiously  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other. 
"  It 's  no  mischief  much  while  she 's  a  little  un  ;  but  an  over^ 
'cute  woman's  no  better  nor  a  long-tailed  sheep,  —  she'll  fetch 
none  the  bigger  price  for  that." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  mischief  while  she 's  a  little  un,  Mr.  Tulliver, 
for  it  all  runs  to  naughtiness.  How  to  keep  her  in  a  clea.n 
pinafore  two  hours  together  passes  my  cunning.  An'  now  you 
put  me  i'  mind,"  continued  Mrs.  Tulliver,  rising  and  going  to 
the  window,  "  I  don't  know  where  she  is  now,  an'  it 's  pretty 
nigh  tea-time.  Ah,  I  thought  so,  —  wanderin'  up  an'  down  by 
the  water,  like  a  wild  thing ;  she  '11  tumble  in  some  day." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  rapped  the  window  sharply,  beckoned,  and 
shook  her  head,  —  a  process  which  she  repeated  more  than 
once  before  she  returned  to  her  chair. 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  7 

"You  talk  o'  'cuteness,  Mr.  Tulliver,"  she  observed  as  she 
sat  down,  "but  I'm  sure  the  child's  half  an  idiot  i'  some 
things ;  for  if  I  send  her  up-stairs  to  fetch  anything,  she  for- 
gets what  she 's  gone  for,  an'  perhaps  'ull  sit  down  on  the  floor 
i'  the  sunshine  an'  plait  her  hair  an'  sing  to  herself  like  a  Bed- 
lam creatur',  all  the  while  I'm  waiting  for  her  down-stairs. 
That  niver  run  i'  my  family,  thank  God !  no  more  nor  a  brown 
skin  as  makes  her  look  like  a  mulatter.  I  don't  like  to  fly  i' 
the  face  o'  Providence,  but  it  seems  hard  as  I  should  have  but 
one  gell,  an'  her  so  comical." 

"Pooh,  nonsense!"  said  Mr.  Tulliver;  "she's  a  straight, 
black-eyed  wench  as  anybody  need  wish  to  see.  I  don't  know 
i'  what  she 's  behind  other  f  olks's  children ;  and  she  can  read 
almost  as  well  as  the  parson." 

"But  her  hair  won't  curl  all  I  can  do  with  it,  and  she's 
so  franzy  about  having  it  put  i'  paper,  and  I  've  such  work 
as  never  was  to  make  her  stand  and  have  it  pinched  with 
th'  irons." 

"Cut  it  off — cut  it  off  short,"  said  the  father,  rashly. 

"  How  can  you  talk  so,  Mr.  Tulliver  ?  She 's  too  big  a  gell  — 
gone  nine,  and  tall  of  her  age  —  to  have  her  hair  cut  short ;  an' 
there 's  her  cousin  Lucy 's  got  a  row  o'  curls  round  her  head, 
an'  not  a  hair  out  o'  place.  It  seems  hard  as  my  sister  Deane 
should  have  that  pretty  child ;  I  'm  sure  Lucy  takes  more  after 
me  nor  my  own  child  does.  Maggie,  Maggie,"  continued  the 
mother,  in  a  tone  of  half-coaxing  fretfulness,  as  this  small 
mistake  of  nature  entered  the  room,  "  where 's  the  use  o'  my 
telling  you  to  keep  away  from  the  water  ?  You  '11  tumble  in 
and  be  drownded  some  day,  an'  then  you  '11  be  sorry  you  did  n't 
do  as  mother  told  you." 

Maggie's  hair,  as  she  threw  off  her  bonnet,  painfully  con- 
firmed her  mother's  accusation.  Mrs.  Tulliver,  desiring  her 
daughter  to  have  a  curled  crop,  "like  other  folks's  children," 
had  had  it  cut  too  short  in  front  to  be  pushed  behind  the  ears ; 
and  as  it  was  usually  straight  an  hour  after  it  had  been  taken 
out  of  paper,  Maggie  was  incessantly  tossing  her  head  to  keep 
the  dark,  heavy  locks  out  of  her  gleaming  black  eyes,  —  an 
action  which  gave  her  very  much  the  air  of  a  small  Shetland 
pony. 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear,  Maggie,  what  are  you  thinkin'  of,  to 
throw  your  bonnet  down  there  ?  Take  it  up-stairs,  there 's  a 
good  gell,  an'  let  your  hair  be  brushed,  an'  put  your  other  pin- 
afore on,  an'  change  your  shoes,  do,  for  shame ;  an'  come  an' 
go  on  with  your  patchwork,  like  a  little  lady." 


8  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  vehemently  cross  tone,  "  I 
don't  want  to  do  my  patchwork." 

"  What !  not  your  pretty  patchwork,  to  make  a  counterpane 
for  your  aunt  Glegg  ?  " 

"  It 's  foolish  work,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  toss  of  her  mane,  — 
"  tearing  things  to  pieces  to  sew  'em  together  again.  And  I 
don't  want  to  do  anything  for  my  aunt  Glegg.  I  don't  like 
her." 

Exit  Maggie,  dragging  her  bonnet  by  the  string,  while  Mr. 
Tulliver  laughs  audibly. 

"  I  wonder  at  you,  as  you  '11  laugh  at  her,  Mr.  Tulliver,"  said 
the  mother,  with  feeble  fretfulness  in  her  tone.  "You  en- 
courage her  i'  naughtiness.  An'  her  aunts  will  have  it  as  it 's 
me  spoils  her." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  what  is  called  a  good-tempered  person,  — 
never  cried,  when  she  was  a  baby,  on  any  slighter  ground  than 
hunger  and  pins ;  and  from  the  cradle  upwards  had  been 
healthy,  fair,  plump,  and  dull-witted;  in  short,  the  flower  of 
her  family  for  beauty  and  amiability.  But  milk  and  mildness 
are  not  the  best  things  for  keeping,  and  when  they  turn  only  a 
little  sour,  they  may  disagree  with  young  stomachs  seriously. 
I  have  often  wondered  whether  those  early  Madonnas  of 
Raphael,  with  the  blond  faces  and  somewhat  stupid  expression, 
kept  their  placidity  undisturbed  when  their  strong-limbed, 
strong-willed  boys  got  a  little  too  old  to  do  without  clothing. 
I  think  they  must  have  been  given  to  feeble  remonstrance, 
getting  more  and  more  peevish  as  it  became  more  and  more 
ineffectual. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MB.    RILEY   GIVES    HIS    ADVICE    CONCERNING   A   SCHOOL 
FOR   TOM. 

THE  gentleman  in  the  ample  white  cravat  and  shirt-frill,  tak- 
ing his  brandy-and-water  so  pleasantly  with  his  good  friend 
Tulliver,  is  Mr.  Riley,  a  gentleman  with  a  waxen  complexion 
and  fat  hands,  rather  highly  educated  for  an  auctioneer  and 
appraiser,  but  large-hearted  enough  to  show  a  great  deal  of  bon- 
hommie  towards  simple  country  acquaintances  of  hospitable 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  9 

habits.  Mr.  Riley  spoke  of  such,  acquaintances  kindly  as 
"people  of  the  old  school." 

The  conversation  had  come  to  a  pause.  Mr.  Tulliver,  not 
without  a  particular  reason,  had  abstained  from  a  seventh  re- 
cital of  the  cool  retort  by  which  Riley  had  shown  himself  too 
many  for  Dix,  and  how  Wakem  had  had  his  comb  cut  for  once 
in  his  life,  now  the  business  of  the  dam  had  been  settled  by 
arbitration,  and  how  there  never  would  have  been  any  dispute 
at  all  about  the  height  of  water  if  everybody  was  what  they 
should  be,  and  Old  Harry  had  n't  made  the  lawyers.  Mr.  Tul- 
liver was,  on  the  whole,  a  man  of  safe  traditional  opinions ; 
but  on  one  or  two  points  he  had  trusted  to  his  unassisted  in- 
tellect, and  had  arrived  at  several  questionable  conclusions  ; 
among  the  rest,  that  rats,  weevils,  and  lawyers  were  created  by 
Old  Harry.  Unhappily  he  had  no  one  to  tell  him  that  this 
was  rampant  Manichseism,  else  he  might  have  seen  his  error. 
But  to-day  it  was  clear  that  the  good  principle  was  triumphant : 
this  affair  of  the  water-power  had  been  a  tangled  business 
somehow,  for  all  it  seemed  —  look  at  it  one  way  —  as  plain  as 
water 's  water ;  but,  big  a  puzzle  as  it  was,  it  had  n't  got  the 
better  of  Eiley.  Mr.  Tulliver  took  his  brandy-and-water  a 
little  stronger  than  usual,  and,  for  a  man  who  might  be  sup- 
posed to  have  a  few  hundreds  lying  idle  at  his  banker's,  was 
rather  incautiously  open  in  expressing  his  high  estimate  of  his 
friend's  business  talents. 

But  the  dam  was  a  subject  of  conversation  that  would  keep ; 
it  could  always  be  taken  up  again  at  the  same  point,  and  ex- 
actly in  the  same  condition ;  and  there  was  another  subject,  as 
you  know,  on  which  Mr.  Tulliver  was  in  pressing  want  of  Mr. 
Riley's  advice.  This  was  his  particular  reason  for  remaining 
silent  for  a  short  space  after  his  last  draught,  and  rubbing  his 
knees  in  a  meditative  manner.  He  was  not  a  man  to  make  an 
abrupt  transition.  This  was  a  puzzling  world,  as  he  often  said, 
and  if  you  drive  your  waggon  in  a  hurry,  you  may  light  on  an 
awkward  corner.  Mr.  Riley,  meanwhile,  was  not  impatient. 
Why  should  he  be  ?  Even  Hotspur,  one  would  think,  must 
have  been  patient  in  his  slippers  on  a  warm  hearth,  taking 
copious  snuff,  and  sipping  gratuitous  brandy-and-water. 

"  There 's  a  thing  I  've  got  i'  my  head,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver  at 
last,  in  rather  a  lower  tone  than  usual,  as  he  turned  his  head 
and  looked  steadfastly  at  his  companion. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Mr.  Riley,  in  a  tone  of  mild  interest.  He  was 
a  man  with  heavy  waxen  eyelids  and  high  arched  eyebrows, 
looking  exactly  the  same  under  all  circumstances.  This  im- 


10  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

movability  of  face,  and  the  habit  of  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff 
before  he  gave  an  answer,  made  him  trebly  oracular  to  Mr. 
Tulliver. 

"  It 's  a  very  particular  thing,"  he  went  on ;  "  it 's  about  my 
boy  Tom." 

At  the  sound  of  this  name,  Maggie,  who  was  seated  on  a  low 
stool  close  by  the  fire,  with  a  large  book  open  on  her  lap,  shook 
her  heavy  hair  back  and  looked  up  eagerly.  There  were  few 
sounds  that  roused  Maggie  when  she  was  dreaming  over  her 
book,  but  Tom's  name  served  as  well  as  the  shrillest  whistle ; 
in  an  instant  she  was  on  the  watch,  with  gleaming  eyes,  like  a 
Skye  terrier  suspecting  mischief,  or  at  all  events  determined 
to  fly  at  any  one  who  threatened  it  towards  Tom. 

"  You  see,  I  want  to  put  him  to  a  new  school  at  Midsummer," 
said  Mr.  Tulliver;  "he's  comin'  away  from  the  'cademy  at 
Ladyday,  an'  I  shall  let  him  run  loose  for  a  quarter ;  but  after 
that  I  want  to  send  him  to  a  downright  good  school,  where 
they  '11  make  a  scholard  of  him." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Riley,  "  there 's  no  greater  advantage  you 
can  give  him  than  a  good  education.  Not,"  he  added,  with 
polite  significance,  — "  not  that  a  man  can't  be  an  excellent 
miller  and  farmer,  and  a  shrewd,  sensible  fellow  into  the  bar- 
gain, without  much  help  from  the  schoolmaster." 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  winking,  and  turning  his 
head  on  one  side ;  "  but  that 's  where  it  is.  I  don't  mean  Tom 
to  be  a  miller  and  farmer.  I  see  no  fun  i'  that.  Why,  if  I 
made  him  a  miller  an'  farmer,  he  'd  be  expectin'  to  take  to  the 
mill  an'  the  land,  an'  a-hinting  at  me  as  it  was  time  for  me  to 
lay  by  an'  think  o'  my  latter  end.  Nay,  nay,  I  've  seen  enough 
o'  that  wi'  sons.  I  '11  never  pull  my  coat  off  before  I  go  to  bed. 
I  shall  give  Tom  an  eddication  an'  put  him  to  a  business,  as  he 
may  make  a  nest  for  himself,  an'  not  want  to  push  me  out  o' 
mine.  Pretty  well  if  he  gets  it  when  I  'in  dead  an'  gone.  I 
sha'n't  be  put  off  wi'  spoon-meat  afore  I  've  lost  my  teeth." 

This  was  evidently  a  point  on  which  Mr.  Tulliver  felt 
strongly ;  and  the  impetus  which  had  given  unusual  rapidity 
arid  emphasis  to  his  speech  showed  itself  still  unexhausted  for 
some  minutes  afterwards  in  a  defiant  motion  of  the  head  from 
side  to  side,  and  an  occasional  "Nay,  nay,"  like  a  subsiding 
growl. 

These  angry  symptoms  were  keenly  observed  by  Maggie, 
and  cut  her  to  the  quick.  Tom,  it  appeared,  was  supposed 
capable  of  turning  his  father  out  of  doors,  and  of  making  the 
future  in  some  way  tragic  by  his  wickedness.  This  was  not 


BOY  AXJ)   GIRL.  11 

to  be  borne ;  and  Maggie  jumped  up  from  her  stool,  forgetting 
all  about  her  heavy  book,  wind)  fell  with  a  bang  within  the 
fender,  and  going  up  between  her  father's  knees,  said,  in  a 
half-crying,  half-indignant  voice,  — 

"  Father,  Tom  would  n't  be  naughty  to  you  ever ;  I  know  he 
would  n't." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  out  of  the  room,  superintending  a  choice 
supper-dish,  and  Mr.  Tulliver' s  heart  was  touched ;  so  Maggie 
was  not  scolded  about  the  book.  Mr.  Kiley  quietly  picked  it 
up  and  looked  at  it,  while  the  father  laughed,  with  a  certain 
tenderness  in  his  hard-lined  face,  and  patted  his  little  givl  on 
the  back,  and  then  held  her  hands  and  kept  her  between  his 
knees. 

"  AVhat !  they  must  n't  say  any  harm  o'  Tom,  eh  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Tulliver,  looking  at  Maggie  with  a  twinkling  eye.  Then,  in  a 
lower  voice,  turning  to  Mr.  Riley,  as  though  Maggie  could  n't 
hear,  "  Sha  understands  what  one 's  talking  about  so  as  never 
was.  And  you  should  hear  her  read,  —  straight  off,  as  if  she 
knowed  it  all  beforehand.  And  allays  at  her  book !  But  it 's 
bad  —  it 's  bad,"  Mr.  Tulliver  added  sadly,  checking  this  blam- 
able  exultation.  "  A  woman 's  no  business  wi'  being  so  clever ; 
it  '11  turn  to  trouble,  I  doubt.  But  bless  you ! "  —  here  the 
exultation  was  clearly  recovering  the  mastery,  —  "  she  '11  read 
the  books  and  understand  'em  better  nor  half  the  folks  as  are 
growed  up." 

Maggie's  cheeks  began  to  flush  with  triumphant  excitement. 
She  thought  Mr.  Riley  would  have  a  respect  for  her  now ;  it 
had  been  evident  that  he  thought  nothing  of  her  before. 

Mr.  Riley  was  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  book,  and  she 
could  make  nothing  of  his  face,  with  its  high-arched  eyebrows ; 
but  he  presently  looked  at  her,  and  said,  — 

"  Come,  come  and  tell  me  something  about  this  book ;  here 
are  some  pictures,  —  I  want  to  know  what  they  mean." 

Maggie,  with  deepening  colour,  went  without  hesitation  to 
Mr.  Riley's  elbow  and  looked  over  the  book,  eagerly  seizing 
one  corner,  and  tossing  back  her  mane,  while  she  said,  — 

"  Oh,  I  '11  tell  you  what  that  means.  It 's  a  dreadful  picture, 
ib  n't  it  ?  But  I  can't  help  looking  at  it.  That  old  woman  in 
the  water 's  a  witch,  —  they  've  put  her  in  to  find  out  whether 
she 's  a  witch  or  no ;  and  if  she  swims  she 's  a  witch,  and  if 
she 's  drowned  —  and  killed,  you  know  —  she 's  innocent,  and 
not  a  witch,  but  only  a  poor  silly  old  woman.  But  what  good 
would  it  do  her  then,  you  know,  when  she  was  drowned  ? 
Only,  I  suppose,  she  'd  go  to  heaven,  and  God  would  make  it 


12  THE  MILL  ON   THE  FLOSS. 

up  to  her.  And  this  dreadful  blacksmith  with  hib  arms  akimbo, 
laughing,  —  oh,  is  n't  he  ugly  ?  —  I  '11  tell  you  what  he  is.  He 's 
the  Devil  really"  (here  Maggie's  voice  became  louder  and  more 
emphatic),  "  and  not  a  right  blacksmith ;  for  the  Devil  takes 
che  shape  of  wicked  men,  and  walks  about  and  sets  people 
doing  wicked  things,  and  he 's  oftener  in  the  shape  of  a  bad 
man  than  any  other,  because,  you  know,  if  people  saw  he  was 
the  Devil,  and  he  roared  at  'em,  they'd  run  away,  and  he 
couldn't  make  'em  do  what  he  pleased." 

Mr.  Tulliver  had  listened  to  this  exposition  of  Maggie's  with 
petrifying  wonder. 

"  Why,  what  book  is  it  the  wench  has  got  hold  on  ? "  he 
burst  out  at  last. 

"The  'History  of  the  Devil,'  by  Daniel  Defoe, — not  quite 
the  right  book  for  a  little  girl,"  said  Mr.  Kiley.  "  How  came 
it  among  your  books,  Tulliver  ?  " 

Maggie  looked  hurt  and  discouraged,  while  her  father  said,  — 

"Why,  it's  one  o'  the  books  I  bought  at  Partridge's  sale. 
They  was  all  bound  alike,  —  it's  a  good  binding,  you  see,  —  and 
I  thought  they  'd  be  all  good  books.  There 's  Jeremy  Taylor's 
'  Holy  Living  and  Dying '  among  'em.  I  read  in  it  often  of  a 
Sunday "  (Mr.  Tulliver  felt  somehow  a  familiarity  with  that 
great  writer,  because  his  name  was  Jeremy)  ;  "  and  there 's  a 
lot  more  of  'em,  —  sermons  mostly,  I  think,  —  but  they  've  all 
got  the  same  covers,  and  I  thought  they  were  all  o'  one  sample, 
as  you  may  say.  But  it  seems  one  must  n't  judge  by  th'  out- 
side. This  is  a  puzzlin'  world." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Kiley,  in  an  admonitory,  patronising  tone 
as  he  patted  Maggie  on  the  head,  "  I  advise  you  to  put  by  the 
'History  of  the  Devil,'  and  read  some  prettier  book.  Have 
you  no  prettier  books  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Maggie,  reviving  a  little  in  the  desire  to 
vindicate  the  variety  of  her  reading.  "  I  know  the  reading  in 
this  book  isn't  pretty;  but  I  like  the  pictures,  and  I  make 
.,tories  to  the  pictures  out  of  my  own  head,  you  know.  But 
I've  got  '^Eso])'s  Fables,'  and  a  book  about  Kangaroos  and 
things,  and  the  '  Pilgrim's  Progress.' " 

"  Ah,  a  beautiful  book,"  said  Mr.  Kiley ;  "  you  can't  read  a 
better." 

"Well,  but  there's  a  great  deal  about  the  Devil  in  that," 
said  Maggie,  triumphantly,  "  and  I  '11  show  you  the  picture  of 
him  in  his  true  shape,  as  he  fought  with  Christian." 

Maggie  ran  in  an  instant  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  jumped 
on  a  chair,  and  reached  down  from  the  small  bookcase  a  shabby 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  13 

old  copy  of  Bunyan,  which  opened  at  once,  without  the  least 
trouble  of  search,  at  the  picture  she  wanted. 

"  Here  he  is,"  she  said,  running  back  to  Mr.  Biley,  "  and 
Tom  coloured  him  for  me  with  his  paints  when  he  was  at 
home  last  holidays,  —  the  body  all  black,  you  know,  and  the 
eyes  red,  like  fire,  because  he's  all  fire  inside,  and  it  shines 
out  at  his  eyes." 

"Go,  go!"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  peremptorily,  beginning  to 
feel  rather  uncomfortable  at  these  free  remarks  on  the  per- 
sonal appearance  of  a  being  powerful  enough  to  create  law- 
yers ;  "  shut  up  the  book,  and  let 's  hear  no  more  o'  such  talk. 
It  is  as  I  thought  — the  child  'ull  learn  more  mischief  nor  good 
wi'  the  books.  Go,  go  and  see  after  your  mother." 

Maggie  shut  up  the  book  at  once,  with  a  sense  of  disgrace, 
but  not  being  inclined  to  see  after  her  mother,  she  compro- 
mised the  matter  by  going  into  a  dark  corner  behind  her  father's 
chair,  and  nursing  her  doll,  towards  which  she  had  an  occa- 
sional fit  of  fondness  in  Tom's  absence,  neglecting  its  toilet, 
but  lavishing  so  many  warm  kisses  on  it  that  the  waxen  cheeks 
had  a  wasted,  unhealthy  appearance. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  on 't  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  as 
Maggie  retired.  "  It 's  a  pity  but  what  she  'd  been  the  lad, — 
she  'd  ha'  been  a  match  for  the  lawyers,  she  would.  It 's  the 
wonderful'st  thing  "  —  here  he  lowered  his  voice  —  "as  I 
picked  the  mother  because  she  was  n't  o'er  'cute  —  bein'  a 
good-looking  woman  too,  an'  come  of  a  rare  family  for  manag- 
ing ;  but  I  picked  her  from  her  sisters  o'  purpose,  'cause  she 
was  a  bit  weak  like ;  for  I  was  n't  agoin'  to  be  told  the  rights 
o'  things  by  my  own  fireside.  But  you  see  when  a  man  's  got 
brains  himself,  there 's  no  knowing  where  they  '11  run  to ;  an' 
a  pleasant  sort  o'  soft  woman  may  go  on  breeding  you  stupid 
lads  and  'cute  wenches,  till  it 's  like  as  if  the  world  was  turned 
topsy-turvy.  It's  an  uncommon  puzzlin'  thing." 

Mr.  Riley's  gravity  gave  way,  and  he  shook  a  little  under 
the  application  of  his  pinch  of  snuff  before  he  said,  — 

"  But  your  lad 's  not  stupid,  is  he  ?  I  saw  him,  when  I  wa  - 
here  last,  busy  making  fishing-tackle ;  he  seemed  quite  up  to 
it." 

"  Well,  he  is  n't  not  to  say  stupid,  —  he  's  got  a  notion 
o'  things  out  o'  door,  an'  a  sort  o'  common-sense,  as  he  'd  lay 
hold  o'  things  by  the  right  handle.  But  he  's  slow  with  his 
tongue,  you  see,  and  he  reads  but  poorly,  and  can't  abide  the 
books,  and  spells  all  wrong,  they  tell  me,  an'  as  shy  as  can  be 
wi'  strangers,  an'  you  never  hear  him  say  'cute  things  like  the 


14  THE    MILL    UN    THE    7-Y.O.S.S. 

little  wench.  Now,  what  I  want  is  to  send  him  to  a  school 
where  they  '11  make  him  a  bit  nimble  with  his  tongue  and  his 
pen,  and  make  a  smart  chap  of  him.  1  want  my  son  to  be 
even  wi'  these  fellows  as  have  got  the  start  o'  me  with  having 
better  schooling.  Not  but  what,  if  the  world  had  been  left  as 
God  made  it,  1  could  ha'  seen  my  way,  and  held  my  own  wi' 
the  best  of  'em ;  but  things  have  got  so  twisted  round  and 
wrapped  up  i'  unreasonable  words,  as  are  n't  a  bit  like  'em, 
as  I  'm  clean  at  fault,  often  an'  often.  Everything  winds 
about  so  —  the  more  straightforrard  you  are,  the  more  you  're 
puzzled." 

JVir.  Tulliver  took  a  draught,  swallowed  it  slowly,  and  shook 
Ms  head  in  a  melancholy  manner,  conscious  of  exemplif}'ing 
the  truth  that  a  perfectly  sane  intellect  is  hardly  at  home  in 
this  insane  world. 

"You're  quite  in  the  right  of  it,  Tulliver,"  observed  Mr. 
Riley.  "  Better  spend  an  extra  hundred  or  two  on  your  son's 
education,  than  leave  it  him  in  your  will.  I  know  I  should 
have  tried  to  do  so  by  a  son  of  mine,  if  I'd  had  one,  though, 
God  knows,  I  have  n't  your  ready  money  to  play  with,  Tulliver ; 
and  I  have  a  houseful  of  daughters  into  the  bargain." 

"  I  daresay,  now,  you  know  of  a  school  as  'ud  be  just  the 
thing  for  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  not  diverted  from  his  pur- 
pose by  any  sympathy  with  Mr.  Riley 's  deficiency  of  ready 
cash. 

Mr.  Riley  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  kept  Mr.  Tulliver  in 
suspense  by  a  silence  that  seemed  deliberative,  before  he 
said,  — 

"  I  know  of  a  very  fine  chance  for  any  one  that 's  got  the 
necessary  money,  and  that 's  what  you  have,  Tulliver.  The 
fact  is,  I  would  n't  recommend  any  friend  of  mine  to  send  a 
boy  to  a  regular  school,  if  he  could  afford  to  do  better.  But 
if  any  one  wanted  his  boy  to  get  superior  instruction  and 
training,  where  he  would  be  the  companion  of  his  master,  and 
that  master  a  first-rate  fellow,  I  know  his  man.  I  would  n't 
mention  the  chance  to  everybody,  because  I  don't  think  every- 
body would  succeed  in  getting  it,  if  he  were  to  try;  but  I 
mention  it  to  you,  Tulliver,  between  ourselves." 

The  fixed  inquiring  glance  with  which  Mr.  Tulliver  had 
been  watching  his  friend's  oracular  face  became  quite  eager. 

"  Ay,  now,  let 's  hear,"  he  said,  adjusting  himself  in  his 
chair  with  the  complacency  of  a  person  who  is  thought  worthy 
of  Important  communications. 

"  He 's  an  Oxford  man,"  said  Mr.  Riley,  sententiously,  shut- 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  15 

ting  his  mouth  close,  and  looking  at  Mr.  Tulliver  to  observe 
the  effect  of  this  stimulating  information. 

"  What !  a  parson  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  rather  doubtfully. 

"  Yes,  and  an  M.  A.  The  bishop,  I  understand,  thinks  very 
highly  of  him :  why,  it  was  the  bishop  who  got  him  his  pres- 
ent curacy." 

"  Ah  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  to  whom  one  thing  was  as  wonder- 
ful as  another  concerning  these  unfamiliar  phenomena.  "  But 
what  can  he  want  wi'  Tom,  then  ?  " 

"Why,  the  fact  is,  he's  fond  of  teaching,  and  wishes  to 
keep  up  his  studies,  and  a  clergyman  has  but  little  opportunity 
for  that  in  his  parochial  duties.  He 's  willing  to  take  one  or 
two  boys  as  pupils  to  fill  up  his  time  profitably.  The  boys 
would  be  quite  of  the  family,  —  the  finest  thing  in  the  world 
for  them  ;  under  Stelling's  eye  continually." 

"  But  do  you  think  they  'd  give  the  poor  lad  twice  o'  pud- 
ding ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  was  now  in  her  place  again. 
"  He  's  such  a  boy  for  pudding  as  never  was  ;  an'  a  growing 
boy  like  that,  —  it 's  dreadful  to  think  o'  their  stintin'  him." 

"  And  what  money  'ud  he  want  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  whose 
instinct  told  him  that  the  services  of  this  admirable  M.A. 
would  bear  a  high  price. 

"  Why,  I  know  of  a  clergyman  who  asks  a  hundred  and  fifty 
with  his  youngest  pupils,  and  he  's  not  to  be  mentioned  with 
Stelling,  the  man  I  speak  of.  I  know,  on  good  authority,  that 
one  of  the  chief  people  at  Oxford  said,  "  Stelling  might  get 
the  highest  honoitrs  if  he  chose.  But  he  did  n't  care  about 
university  honours  ;  he  's  a  quiet  man  —  not  noisy." 

"  Ah,  a  deal  better  —  a  deal  better,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver ; 
"but  a  hundred  and  fifty  's  an  uncommon  price.  I  never 
thought  o'  paying  so  much  as  that." 

"  A  good  education,  let  rne  tell  you,  Tulliver,  —  a  good  edu- 
cation is  cheap  at  the  money.  But  Stelling  is  moderate  in  his 
terms  ;  he  's  not  a  grasping  man.  I  've  no  doubt  he  'd  take 
your  boy  at  a  hundred,  and  that 's  what  you  would  n't  get 
many  other  clergymen  to  do.  I  '11  write  to  him  about  it,  it 
you  like." 

Mr.  Tulliver  rubbed  his  knees,  and  looked  at  the  carpet  in 
a  meditative  manner. 

"  But  belike  he  's  a  bachelor,"  observed  Mrs.  Tulliver,  in  the 
interval ;  "  an'  I  've  no  opinion  o'  housekeepers.  There  was 
my  brother,  as  is  dead  an'  gone,  had  a  housekeeper  once,  an' 
she  took  half  the  feathers  out  o'  the  best  bed,  an'  packed  'em 
up  an'  sent  'em  away.  An'  it 's  unknown  the  linen  she  made 


16  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

away  with  —  Stott  her  name  was.  It  'ud  break  my  heart  to 
send  Tom  where  there  's  a  housekeeper,  an'  I  hope  you  won't 
think  of  it,  Mr.  Tulliver." 

"You  may  set  your  mind  at  rest  on  that  score,  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver," said  Mr.  Riley,  "  for  Stelling  is  married  to  as  nice  a  little 
woman  as  any  man  need  wish  for  a  wife.  There  is  n't  a  kinder 
little  soul  in  the  world  ;  I  know  her  family  well.  She  has 
very  much  your  complexion,  —  light  curly  hair.  She  comes  of 
a  good  Mudport  family,  and  it 's  not  every  offer  that  would 
have  been  acceptable  in  that  quarter.  But  Stelling  's  not  an 
every-day  man ;  rather  a  particular  fellow  as  to  the  people  he 
chooses  to  be  connected  with.  But  I  think  he  would  have  no 
objection  to  take  your  son;  I  think  he  would  not,  on  my 
representation." 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  could  have  against  the  lad,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  a  slight  touch  of  motherly  indignation;  "a 
nice  fresh-skinned  lad  as  anybody  need  wish  to  see." 

"  But  there  's  one  thing  I  'in  thinking  on,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
turning  his  head  on  one  side  and  looking  at  Mr.  Riley,  after  a 
long  perusal  of  the  carpet.  "  Would  n't  a  parson  be  almost  too 
high-learnt  to  bring  up  a  lad  to  be  a  man  o'  business  ?  My 
notion  o'  the  parsons  was  as  they  'd  got  a  sort  o'  learning  as 
lay  mostly  out  o'  sight.  And  that  is  n't  what  I  want  for  Tom. 
I  want  him  to  know  figures,  and  write  like  print,  and  see  into 
things  quick,  and  know  what  folks  mean,  and  how  to  wrap 
things  up  in  words  as  are  n't  actionable.  It 's  an  uncommon 
fine  thing,  that  is,"  concluded  Mr.  Tulliver,  shaking  his  head, 
"when  you  can  let  a  man  know  what  you  think  of  him  without 
paying  for  it." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Tulliver,"  said  Mr.  Riley,  "you  're  quite  under 
a  mistake  about  the  clergy ;  all  the  best  schoolmasters  are  of 
the  clergy.  The  schoolmasters  who  are  not  clergymen  are  a 
very  low  set  of  men  generally." 

"  Ay,  that  Jacobs  is,  at  the  'cademy,"  interposed  Mr.  Tulliver. 

"  To  be  sure,  —  men  who  have  failed  in  other  trades,  most 
likely.  Now,  a  clergyman  is  a  gentleman  by  profession  and 
education ;  and  besides  that,  he  has  the  knowledge  that  will 
ground  a  boy,  and  prepare  him  for  entering  on  any  career  with 
credit.  There  may  be  some  clergymen  wno  are  mere  book- 
men ;  but  you  may  depend  upon  it,  Stelling  is  not  one  of  them, 
—  a  man  that 's  wide  awake,  let  me  tell  you.  Drop  him  a 
hint,  and  that 's  enough.  You  talk  of  figures,  now ;  you  have 
only  to  say  to  Stelling,  '  I  want  my  son  to  be  a  thorough  arith- 
metician,' and  you  may  leave  the  rest  to  him." 


'BOY  AND  GIRL.  17 

Mr.  Riley  paused  a  moment,  while  Mr.  Tulliver,  somewhat 
reassured  as  to  clerical  tutorship,  was  inwardly  rehearsing  to  an 
imaginary  Mr.  Stelling  the  statement,  "  I  want  my  son  to  know 
'rethmetic." 

"You  see,  my  dear  Tulliver,"  Mr.  Riley  continued,  "when 
you  get  a  thoroughly  educated  man,  like  Stelling,  he  's  at  no 
loss  to  take  up  any  branch  of  instruction.  When  a  workman 
knows  the  use  of  his  tools,  he  can  make  a  door  as  well  as  a 
window." 

"  Ay,  that 's  true,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  almost  convinced  now 
that  the  clergy  must  be  the  best  of  schoolmasters. 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Riley, 
"  and  I  would  n't  do  it  for  everybody.  I  '11  see  Stelling's  father- 
in-law,  or  drop  him  a  line  when  I  get  back  to  Mudport,  to  say 
that  you  wish  to  place  your  boy  with  his  son-in-law,  and  I 
daresay  Stelling  will  write  to  you,  and  send  you  his  terms." 

"  But  there  's  no  hurry,  is  there  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver ;  "  for 
I  hope,  Mr.  Tulliver,  you  won't  let  Tom  begin  at  his  new  school 
before  Midsummer.  He  began  at  the  'cadeiuy  at  the  Ladyday 
quarter,  and  you  see  what  good  's  come  of  it." 

"Ay,  ay,  Bessy,  never  brew  wi'  bad  malt  upo'  Michaelmas- 
day,  else  you  '11  have  a  poor  tap,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  winking 
and  smiling  at  Mr.  Riley,  with  the  natural  pride  of  a  man  who 
has  a  buxom  wife  conspicuously  his  inferior  in  intellect.  "  But 
it 's  true  there  's  no  hurry ;  you  've  hit  it  there,  Bessy." 

"  It  might  be  as  well  not  to  defer  the  arrangement  too  long," 
said  Mr.  Riley,  quietly,  "  for  Stelling  may  have  propositions 
from  other  parties,  and  I  know  he  would  not  take  more  than 
two  or  three  boarders,  if  so  many.  If  I  were  you,  I  think  I 
would  enter  on  the  subject  with  Stelling  at  once:  there  's  no 
necessity  for  sending  the  boy  before  Midsummer,  but  I  would 
be  on  the  safe  side,  and  make  sure  that  nobody  forestalls  you." 

"  Ay,  there  's  summat  in  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 

"  Father,"  broke  in  Maggie,  who  had  stolen  unperceived  to 
her  father's  elbow  again,  listening  with  parted  lips,  while  she 
held  her  doll  topsy-turvy,  and  crushed  its  nose  against  the 
wood  of  the  chair,  —  "  father,  is  it  a  long  way  off  where  Tom 
is  to  go  ?  Sha'n't  we  ever  go  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  my  wench,"  said  the  father,  tenderly.  "  Ask 
Mr.  Riley;  he  knows." 

Maggie  came  round  promptly  in  front  of  Mr.  Riley,  and  said, 
"  How  far  is  it,  please,  sir  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  long,  long  way  off,"  that  gentleman  answered,  being 
of  opinion  that  children,  when  they  are  not  naughty,  should 

2 


18  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

always  be  spoken  to  jocosely.  "  You  must  borrow  the  seven- 
leagued  boots  to  get  to  him." 

"  That 's  nonsense !  "  said  Maggie,  tossing  her  head  haughtily, 
and  turning  away,  with  the  tears  springing  in  her  eyes.  She 
began  to  dislike  Mr.  Riley ;  it  was  evident  he  thought  her  silly 
and  of  no  consequence. 

"  Hush,  Maggie  !  for  shame  of  you,  asking  questions  and 
chattering,"  said  her  mother.  "Come  and  sit  down  on  your 
little  stool,  and  hold  your  tongue,  do.  But,"  added  Mrs.  Tul- 
liver,  who  had  her  own  alarm  awakened,  "  is  it  so  far  off  as  I 
could  n't  wash  him  and  mend  him  ?  " 

"  About  fifteen  miles ;  that 's  all,"  said  Mr.  Riley.  "  You  can 
drive  there  and  back  in  a  day  quite  comfortably.  Or  —  Stel- 
ling  is  a  hospitable,  pleasant  man  —  he  'd  be  glad  to  have  you 
stay." 

"  But  it 's  too  far  off  for  the  linen,  I  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver,  sadly. 

The  entrance  of  supper  opportunely  adjourned  this  difficulty, 
and  relieved  Mr.  Riley  from  the  labour  of  sn^vsting  some  solu- 
tion or  compromise,  —  a  labour  which  he  would  otherwise  doubt- 
less have  undertaken  ;  for,  as  you  perceive,  he  was  a  man  of 
very  obliging  manners.  And  he  had  really  given  himself  the 
trouble  of  recommending  Mr.  Stelling  to  his  friend  Tulliver 
without  any  positive  expectation  of  a  solid,  definite  advantage 
resulting  to  himself,  notwithstanding  the  subtle  indications  to 
the  contrary  which  might  have  misled  a  too  sagacious  observer. 
For  there  is  nothing  more  widely  misleading  than  sagacity  if  it 
happens  to  get  on  a  wrong  scent  ;  and  sagacity,  persuaded  that 
men  usually  act  and  speak  from  distinct  motives,  with  a  con- 
sciously proposed  end  in  view,  is  certain  to  waste  its  energies 
on  imaginary  game.  Plotting  covetousness  and  deliberate  con- 
trivance, in  order  to  compass  a  selfish  end.  are  nowhere  abun- 
dant but  in  the  world  of  the  dramatist:  they  demand  too 
intense  a  mental  action  for  many  of  our  fellow-parishioners  to 
be  guilty  of  them.  It  is  easy  enough  to  spoil  the  lives  of  our 
neighbours  without  taking  so  much  trouble;  we  can  do  it  l>y 
lazy  acquiescence  and  lazy  omission,  by  trivial  falsities  for 
which  we  hardly  know  a  reason,  by  small  frauds  neutralised 
by  small  extravagances,  by  maladroit  flatteries,  and  clumsily 
improvised  insinuations.  We  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  most 
of  us,  with  a  small  family  of  immediate  desires ;  we  do  little 
else  than  snatch  a  morsel  to  satisfy  the  hungry  brood,  rarely 
thinking  of  seed-corn  or  the  next  year's  crop. 

Mr.  Riley  was  a  man  of  business,  and  not  cold  towards  his 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  19 

own  interest,  yet  even  he  was  more  under  the  influence  of 
small  promptings  than  of  far-sighted  designs.  He  had  no 
private  understanding  with  the  Rev.  Walter  Stelling ;  on  the 
contrary,  he  knew  very  little  of  that  M.A.  and  his  acquire- 
ments,—  not  quite  enough,  perhaps,  to  warrant  so  strong  a 
recommendation  of  him  as  he  had  given  to  his  friend  Tulliver. 
But  he  believed  Mr.  Stelling  to  be  an  excellent  classic,  for 
Gadsby  had  said  so,  and  Gadsby's  first  cousin  was  an  Oxford 
tutor ;  which  was  better  ground  for  the  belief  even  than  his 
own  immediate  observation  would  have  been,  for  though  Mr. 
Riley  had  received  a  tincture  of  the  classics  at  the  great  Mud- 
port  Free  School,  and  had  a  sense  of  understanding  Latin  gen- 
erally, his  comprehension  of  any  particular  Latin  Avas  not  ready. 
Doubtless  there  remained  a  subtle  aroma  from  his  juvenile  con- 
tact with  the  "  De  Senectute "  and  the  fourth  book  of  the 
"  ^Eneid,"  but  it  had  ceased  to  be  distinctly  recognisable  as 
classical,  and  was  only  perceived  in  the  higher  finish  and  force 
of  his  auctioneering  style.  Then,  Stelling  was  an  Oxford  man, 
and  the  Oxford  men  were  always  —  no,  no,  it  was  the  Cambridge 
men  who  were  always  good  mathematicians.  But  a  man  who 
had  had  a  university  education  could  teach  anything  he  liked ; 
especially  a  man  like  Stelling,  who  had  made  a  speech  at  a 
Mudport  dinner  on  a  political  occasion,  and  had  acquitted  him- 
self so  well  that  it  was  generally  remarked,  this  son-in-law  of 
Timpson's  was  a  sharp  fellow.  It  was  to  be  expected  of  a 
Mudport  man,  from  the  parish  of  St.  Ursula,  that  he  would 
not  omit  to  do  a  good  turn  to  a  son-in-law  of  Timpson's,  for 
Timpson  was  one  of  the  most  useful  and  influential  men  in  the 
parish,  and  had  a  good  deal  of  business,  which  he  knew  how 
to  put  into  the  right  hands.  Mr.  Riley  liked  such  men,  quite 
apart  from  any  money  which  might  be  diverted,  through  their 
good  judgment,  from  less  worthy  pockets  into  his  own  ;  and  it 
would  be  a  satisfaction  to  him  to  say  to  Timpson  on  his  re- 
turn home,  "  I  Ve  secured  a  good  pupil  for  your  son-in-law." 
Timpson  had  a  large  family  of  daughters  ;  Mr.  Riley  felt  for 
him  ;  besides,  Louisa  Timpson's  face,  with  its  light  curls,  had 
been  a  familiar  object  to  him  over  the  pew  wainscot  on  a  Sunday 
for  nearly  fifteen  years ;  it  was  natural  her  husband  should  be 
a  commendable  tutor.  Moreover,  Mr.  Riley  knew  of  no  other 
schoolmaster  whom  he  had  any  ground  for  recommending  in 
preference  ;  why,  then,  should  he  not  recommend  Stelling  ? 
His  friend  Tulliver  had  asked  him  for  an  opinion ;  it  is  always 
chilling,  in  friendly  intercourse,  to  say  you  have  no  opinion  to 
give.  And  if  you  deliver  an  opinion  at  all,  it  is  mere  stupidity 


20  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

not  to  do  it  with  an  air  of  conviction  and  well-founded  knowl- 
".  You  make  it  your  own  in  uttering  it,  and  naturally  get 
:« mil  of  it.  Thus  Mr.  Kiley,  knowing  no  harm  of  Stelling  to 
in  with,  and  wishing  him  well,  so  far  as  he  had  any  wishes 
at  all  concerning  him,  had  no  sooner  recommended  him  thac 
he  began  to  think  with  admiration  of  a  man  recommended  OD 
such  high  authority,  and  would  soon  have  gathered  so  warm 
;ui  interest  on  the  subject,  that  if  Mr.  Tulliver  had  in  the 
end  declined  to  send  Tom  to  Stelling,  Mr.  Eiley  would  havr 
thought  his  "  friend  of  the  old  school "  a  thoroughly  pig-head* 
fellow. 

If  you  blame  Mr.  Eiley  very  severely  for  giving  a  recom 
inendation  on  such  slight  grounds,  I  must  say  you  are  rather 
hard  upon  him.  Why  should  an  auctioneer  and  appraiser 
thirty  years  ago,  who  had  as  good  as  forgotten  his  free-school 
Latin,  be  expected  to  manifest  a  delicate  scrupulosity  which  is 
not  always  exhibited  by  gentlemen  of  the  learned  professions, 
even  in  our  present  advanced  stage  of  morality  ? 

Besides,  a  man  with  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  him 
can  scarcely  abstain  from  doing  a  good-natured  action,  and  one 
cannot  be  good-natured  all  round.  Nature  herself  occasion- 
ally quarters  an  inconvenient  parasite  on  an  animal  towards 
whom  she  has  otherwise  no  ill-will.  What  then  ?  We  admire 
her  care  for  the  parasite.  If  Mr.  Eiley  had  shrunk  from 
giving  a  recommendation  that  was  not  based  on  valid  evidence, 
he  would  not  have  helped  Mr.  Stelling  to  a  paying  pupil,  and 
that  would  not  have  been  so  well  for  the  reverend  gentleman. 
Consider,  too,  that  all  the  pleasant  little  dim  ideas  and  com- 
placencies—  of  standing  well  with  Timpson,  of  dispensing 
advice  when  he  was  asked  for  it,  of  impressing  Ins  friend  Tul- 
liver with  additional  respect,  of  saying  something,  and  saying 
it  emphatically,  with  other  inappreciably  minute  ingredients 
that  went  along  with  the  warm  hearth  and  the  brandy-and- 
water  to  make  up  Mr.  Riley's  consciousness  on  this  occasion  — 
would  have  been  a  mere  blank. 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  21 


CHAPTER  IV. 

TOM    IS    EXPECTED. 

IT  was  a  heavy  disappointment  to  Maggie  that  she  was  not 
allowed  to  go  with  her  father  in  the  gig  when  he  went  to  fetch 
Tom  home  from  the  academy ;  but  the  morning  was  too  wet, 
Mrs.  Tulliver  said,  for  a  little  girl  to  go  out  in  her  best  bonnet. 
Maggie  took  the  opposite  view  very  strongly,  and  it  was  a 
direct  consequence  of  this  difference  of  opinion  that  when  her 
mother  was  in  the  act  of  brushing  out  the  reluctant  black 
crop,  Maggie  suddenly  rushed  from  under  her  hands  and 
dipped  her  head  in  a  basin  of  water  standing  near,  in  the 
vindictive  determination  that  there  should  be  no  more  chance 
of  curls  that  day. 

"  Maggie,  Maggie ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tulliver,  sitting  stout 
and  helpless  with  the  brushes  on  her  lap,  "  what  is  to  become 
of  you  if  you  're  so  naughty  ?  I  '11  tell  your  aunt  Glegg  and 
your  aunt  Pullet  when  they  come  next  week,  and  they  '11  never 
love  you  any  more.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  look  at  your  clean 
pinafore,  wet  from  top  to  bottom.  Folks  'till  think  it's  a 
judgment  on  me  as  I've  got  such  a  child,  —  they'll  think  I've 
done  summat  wicked." 

Before  this  remonstrance  was  finished,  Maggie  was  already 
out  of  hearing,  making  her  way  towards  the  great  attic  that 
ran  under  the  old  high-pitched  roof,  shaking  the  water  from 
her  black  locks  as  she  ran,  like  a  Skye  terrier  escaped  from 
his  bath.  This  attic  was  Maggie's  favourite  retreat  on  a  wet 
day,  when  the  weather  was  not  too  cold  j  here  she  fretted  out 
all  her  ill-humours,  and  talked  aloud  to  the  worm-eaten  floors 
imd  the  worm-eaten  shelves,  and  the  dark  rafters  festooned 
with  cobwebs ;  and  here  she  kept  a  Fetish  which  she  punished 
for  all  her  misfortunes.  This  was  the  trunk  of  a  large  wooden 
doll,  which  once  stared  with  the  roundest  of  eyes  above  the 
reddest  of  cheeks;  but  was  now  entirely  defaced  by  a  long 
career  of  vicarious  suffering.  Three  nails  driven  into  the 
head  commemorated  as  many  crises  in  Maggie's  nine  years  of 
earthly  struggle ;  that  luxury  of  vengeance  having  been  sug- 
gested to  her  by  the  picture  of  Jael  destroying  Sisera  in  the 
old  Bible.  The  last  nail  had  been  driven  in  with  a  fiercer 


--  THE  MILL    ON   THE  FLOSS. 

stroke  than  usual,  for  the  Fetish  on  that  occasion  represented 
aunt  Glegg.  But  immediately  afterwards  Maggie  had  reflected 
that  if  she  drove  many  nails  in,  she  would  not  be  so  well  able 
to  fancy  that  the  head  was  hurt  when  she  knocked  it  against 
the  wall,  nor  to  comfort  it,  and  make  believe  to  poultice  it, 
when  her  fury  was  abated;  for  even  aunt  Glegg  would  be 
pitiable  when  she  had  been  hurt  very  much,  and  thoroughly 
humiliated,  so  as  to  beg  her  niece's  pardon.  Since  then  she 
had  driven  no  more  nails  in,  but  had  soothed  herself  by  alter- 
nately grinding  and  beating  the  wooden  head  against  the  rough 
brick  of  the  great  chimneys  that  made  two  square  pillars  sup- 
porting the  roof.  That  was  what  she  did  this  morning  on 
reaching  the  attic,  sobbing  all  the  while  with  a  passion  that 
expelled  every  other  form  of  consciousness,  —  even  the  memory 
of  the  grievance  that  had  caused  it.  As  at  last  the  sobs  \ve re-- 
getting quieter,  and  the  grinding  less  fierce,  a  sudden  beam  of 
sunshine,  falling  through  the  wire  lattice  across  the  worm-eaten 
shelves,  made  her  throw  away  the  Fetish  and  run  to  the  win- 
dow. The  sun  was  really  breaking  out;  the  sound  of  the  mill 
seemed  cheerful  again ;  the  granary  doors  were  open ;  and 
there  was  Yap,  the  queer  white-and-brown  terrier,  with  one 
ear  turned  back,  trotting  about  and  sniffing  vaguely,  as  if  he 
were  in  search  of  a  companion.  It  was  irresistible.  Maggie 
tossed  her  hair  back  and  ran  down-stairs,  seized  her  bonnet 
without  putting  it  on,  peeped,  and  then  dashed  along  the  pas- 
sage lest  she  shoiild  encounter  her  mother,  and  was  quickly 
out  in  the  yard,  whirling  round  like  a  Pythoness,  and  singing 
as  she  whirled,  "  Yap,  Yap,  Tom's  coming  home!"  while  Yap 
danced  and  barked  round  her,  as  much  as  to  say,  if  there  was 
any  noise  wanted  he  was  the  dog  for  it. 

"  Hegh,  hegh,  Miss  !  you  '11  make  yourself  giddy,  an'  tumble 
down  i'  the  dirt,"  said  Luke,  the  head  miller,  a  tall,  broad- 
shouldered  man  of  forty,  black-eyed  and  black-haired,  subdued 
by  a  general  mealiness,  like  an  auricula. 

Maggie  paused  in  her  whirling  and  said,  staggering  a  little, 
"  Oh  no,  it  does  n't  make  me  giddy,  Luke ;  may  I  go  into  the 
mill  with  you?" 

Maggie  loved  to  linger  in  the  great  spaces  of  the  mill,  and 
often  came  out  with  her  black  hair  powdered  to  a  soft  white- 
ness that  made  her  dark  eyes  flash  out  with  new  fire.  The 
resolute  din,  the  unresting  motion  of  the  great  stones,  giving 
her  a  dim,  delicious  awe  as  at  the  presence  of  an  uncontrollable 
force ;  the  meal  for  ever  pouring,  pouring ;  the  fine  white 
powder  softening  all  surfaces,  and  making  the  very  spider-nets 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  23 

look  like  a  faery  lace-work  ;  the  sweet,  pure  scent  of  the 
meal,  —  all  helped  to  make  Maggie  feel  that  the  mill  was  a 
little  world  apart  from  her  outside  every-day  life.  The  spiders 
were  especially  a  subject  of  speculation  with  her.  She  won- 
dered if  they  had  any  relatives  outside  the  mill,  for  in  that 
case  there  must  be  a  painful  difficulty  in  their  family  inter- 
course, —  a  fat  and  floury  spider,  accustomed  to  take  his  fly 
well  dusted  with  meal,  must  suffer  a  little  at  a  cousin's  table 
where  the  fly  was  au  naturel,  and  the  lady-spiders  must  be 
mutually  shocked  at  each  other's  appearance.  But  the  part  of 
the  mill  she  liked  best  was  the  topmost  story,  — the  corn-hutch, 
where  there  were  the  great  heaps  of  grain,  which  she  could  sit 
on  and  slide  down  continually.  She  was  in  the  habit  of  taking 
this  recreation  as  she  conversed  with  Luke,  to  whom  she  was 
very  communicative,  wishing  him  to  think  well  of  her  under- 
standing, as  her  father  did. 

Perhaps  she  felt  it  necessary  to  recover  her  position  with 
him  on  the  present  occasion,  for,  as  she  sat  sliding  on  the 
heap  of  grain  near  which  he  was  busying  himself,  she  said,  at 
that  shrill  pitch  which  was  requisite  in  mill-society,  — 

"  I  think  you  never  read  any  book  but  the  Bible,  did  you, 
Luke  ?  " 

"Is ay,  Miss,  an'  not  much  o'  that/'  said  Luke,  with  great 
frankness.  "  I  'in  no  reader,  I  are  n't." 

"  But  if  I  lent  you  one  of  my  books,  Luke  ?  I  've  not  got 
any  very  pretty  books  that  would  be  easy  for  you  to  read ;  but 
there's  'Pug's  Tour  of  Europe,'  —  that  would  tell  you  all 
about  the  different  sorts  of  people  in  the  world,  and  if  you 
did  n't  understand  the  reading,  the  pictures  would  help  you  ; 
they  show  the  looks  and  ways  of  the  people,  and  what  they  do. 
There  are  the  Dutchmen,  very  fat,  and  smoking,  you  know, 
and  one  sitting  on  a  barrel." 

"  Nay,  Miss,  I  'n  no  opinion  o'  Dutchmen.  There  be  n't 
much  good  i'  knowin'  about  them." 

"  But  they  're  our  fellow-creatures,  Luke ;  we  ought  to 
know  about  our  fellow-creatures." 

"  Not  much  o'  f ellow-creaturs,  I  think,  Miss  ;  all  I  know  — 
my  old  master,  as  war  a  knowin'  man,  used  to  say,  says  he, 
'  If  e'er  I  sow  my  wheat  wi'out  brinin',  I  'm  a  Dutchman,'  says 
he ;  an'  that  war  as  much  as  to  say  as  a  Dutchman  war  a  fool, 
or  next  door.  Nay,  nay,  I  are  n't  goin'  to  bother  mysen  about 
Dutchmen.  There 's  fools  enoo,  an'  rogues  enoo,  wi'out  lookin' 
i'  books  for  'em." 

" Oh,  well/'  said  Maggie,  rather  foiled  by  Luke's  unexpect- 


24  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

edly  decided  views  about  Dutchmen,  "  perhaps  you  would  like 
'Animated  Nature'  better;  that's  not  Dutchmen,  you  know, 
but  elephants  and  kangaroos,  and  the  civet-cat,  and  the  sun- 
fish,  and  a  bird  sitting  on  its  tail,  —  I  forget  its  name.  There 
are  countries  full  of  those  creatures,  instead  of  horses  and 
cows,  you  know.  Shouldn't  you  like  to  know  about  them, 
Luke  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Miss,  I  'n  got  to  keep  count  o'  the  flour  an'  corn ;  I 
can't  do  wi'  knowin'  so  many  things  besides  my  work.  That 's 
what  brings  folks  to  the  gallows,  —  knowin'  everything  but  what 
they  'n  got  to  get  their  bread  by.  An'  they  're  mostly  lies,  I 
think,  what 's  printed  i'  the  books :  them  printed  sheets  are, 
anyhow,  as  the  men  cry  i'  the  streets." 

"  Why,  you  're  like  my  brother  Tom,  Luke,"  said  Maggie, 
wishing  to  turn  the  conversation  agreeably ;  "  Tom  's  not  fond 
of  reading.  I  love  Tom  so  dearly,  Luke,  —  better  than  anybody 
else  in  the  world.  When  he  grows  up  I  shall  keep  his  house, 
and  we  shall  always  live  together.  I  can  tell  him  everything 
he  does  n't  know.  But  I  think  Tom  's  clever,  for  all  he  does  n't 
like  books ;  he  makes  beautiful  whipcord  and  rabbit-pens." 

"  Ah,"  said  Luke,  "  but  he  '11  be  fine  an'  vexed,  as  the  rabbits 
are  all  dead." 

"  Dead ! "  screamed  Maggie,  jumping  up  from  her  sliding 
seat  on  the  corn.  "  Oh  dear,  Luke !  What !  the  lop-eared  one, 
and  the  spotted  doe  that  Tom  spent  all  his  money  to  buy  ?  " 

"As  dead  as  moles,"  said  Luke,  fetching  his  comparison 
from  the  unmistakeable  corpses  nailed  to  the  stable-wall. 

"  Oh  dear,  Luke,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  piteous  tone,  while  the 
big  tears  rolled  down  her  cheek ;  "  Tom  told  me  to  take  care 
of  'em,  and  I  forgot.  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  Miss,  they  were  in  that  far  tool-house,  an'  it 
was  nobody's  business  to  see  to  'em.  I  reckon  Master  Tom 
told  Harry  to  feed  'em,  but  there  's  no  countin'  on  Harry  ;  he  's 
an  offal  creatur  as  iver  come  about  the  primises,  he  is.  He 
remembers  nothing  but  his  own  inside  —  an'  I  wish  it  'ud  gripe 
him." 

"Oh,  Luke,  Tom  told  me  to  be  sure  and  remember  the 
rabbits  every  day ;  but  how  could  I,  when  they  did  n't  come 
into  my  head,  you  know?  Oh,  he  will  be  so  angry  with  me, 
I  know  he  will,  and  so  sorry  about  his  rabbits,  and  so  am  1 
sorry.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  fret,  Miss,"  said  Luke,  soothingly ;  "  they  're 
nash  things,  them  lop-eared  rabbits  ;  they  'd  happen  ha'  died, 
if  they  'd  been  fed.  Things  out  o'  natur  niver  thrive :  God 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  26 

A'inighty  does  n't  like  'em.  He  made  the  rabbits'  ears  to  lie 
back,  an'  it  's  notliin'  but  contrairiness  to  make  'em  hing  down 
like  a  mastiff  dog's.  Master  Tom  'ull  know  better  nor  buy 
such  things  another  time.  Don't  you  fret,  Miss.  Will  you 
come  along  home  wi'  me,  and  see  my  wife  ?  I  'in  a-goin'  this 
minute." 

The  invitation  offered  an  agreeable  distraction  to  Maggie's 
grief,  and  her  tears  gradually  subsided  as  she  trotted  along  by 
Luke's  side  to  his  pleasant  cottage,  which  stood  with  its  apple 
and  pear  trees,  and  with  the  added  dignity  of  a  lean-to  pig-sty, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  Mill  fields.  Mrs.  Moggs,  Luke's  wife, 
was  a  decidedly  agreeable  acquaintance.  She  exhibited  her 
hospitality  in  bread  and  treacle,  and  possessed  various  works 
of  art.  Maggie  actually  forgot  that  she  had  any  special  cause 
of  sadness  this  morning,  as  she  stood  on  a  chair  to  look  at  a 
remarkable  series  of  pictures  representing  the  Prodigal  Son  in 
the  costume  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  except  that,  as  might 
have  been  expected  from  his  defective  moral  character,  he  had 
not,  like  that  accomplished  hero,  the  taste  and  strength  of 
mind  to  dispense  with  a  wig.  But  the  indefinable  weight  the 
dead  rabbits  had  left  on  her  mind  caused  her  to  feel  more  than 
usual  pity  for  the  career  of  this  weak  young  man,  particularly 
when  she  looked  at  the  picture  where  he  leaned  against  a  tree 
with  a  flaccid  appearance,  his  knee-breeches  unbuttoned  and 
his  wig  awry,  while  the  swine,  apparently  of  some  foreign 
breed,  seemed  to  insult  him  by  their  good  spirits  over  their 
feast  of  husks. 

"  I  'm  very  glad  his  father  took  him  back  again,  are  n't  you, 
Luke  ? "  she  said.  "  For  he  was  very  sorry,  you  know,  and 
would  n't  do  wrong  again." 

"  Eh,  Miss,"  said  Luke,  "  he  'd  be  no  great  shakes,  I  doubt, 
let 's  feyther  do  what  he  would  for  him." 

That  was  a  painful  thought  to  Maggie,  and  she  wished  much 
that  the  subsequent  history  of  the  young  man  had  not  been 
left  a  blank. 


26  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

CHAPTER   V. 

TOM    COMES    HOME. 

TOM  was  to  arrive  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  there  was 
another  fluttering  heart  besides  Maggie's  when  it  was  late 
enough  for  the  sound  of  the  gig-wheels  to  be  expected ;  for 
if  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  a  strong  feeling,  it  was  fondness  for  her 
boy.  At  last  the  sound  came,  —  that  quick  light  bowling  of 
the  gig-wheels,  —  and  in  spite  of  the  wind,  which  was  blowing 
the  clouds  about,  and  was  not  likely  to  respect  Mrs.  Tulliver 's 
curls  and  cap-strings,  she  came  outside  the  door,  and  even 
held  her  hand  on  Maggie's  offending  head,  forgetting  all  the 
griefs  of  the  morning. 

"  There  he  is,  my  sweet  lad !  But,  Lord  ha'  mercy  !  he 's 
got  never  a  collar  on  ;  it 's  been  lost  on  the  road,  I  '11  be  bound, 
and  spoilt  the  set." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  stood  with  her  arms  open;  Maggie  jumped 
first  on  one  leg  and  then  on  the  other ;  while  Tom  descended 
from  the  gig,  and  said,  with  masculine  reticence  as  to  the 
tender  emotions,  "  Hallo  !  Yap  —  what !  are  you  there  ?  " 

Nevertheless  he  submitted  to  be  kissed  willingly  enough, 
though  Maggie  hung  on  his  neck  in  rather  a  strangling  fashion, 
while  his  blue-grey  eyes  wandered  towards  the  croft  and  the 
lambs  and  the  river,  where  he  promised  himself  that  he  would 
begin  to  fish  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  He  was  one 
of  those  lads  that  grow  everywhere  in  England,  and  at  twelve 
or  thirteen  years  of  age  look  as  much  alike  as  goslings,  —  a 
lad  with  light-brown  hair,  cheeks  of  cream  and  roses,  full  lips, 
indeterminate  nose  and  eyebrows,  —  a  physiognomy  in  which 
it  seems  impossible  to  discern  anything  but  the  generic  char- 
acter of  boyhood ;  as  different  as  possible  from  poor  Maggie's 
phiz,  which  Nature  seemed  to  have  moulded  and  coloured  wit  !i 
the  most  decided  intention.  But  that  same  Nature  has  the 
deep  cunning  which  hides  itself  under  the  appearance  of  open- 
ness, so  that  simple  people  think  they  can  see  through  her 
quite  well,  and  all  the  while  she  is  secretly  preparing  a  refuta- 
tion of  their  confident  prophecies.  Under  these  average  boy- 
ish physiognomies  that  she  seems  to  turn  off  by  the  gross,  she 
conceals  some  of  her  most  rigid,  inflexible  purposes,  some  of 
her  most  unmodifiable  character;; ;  and  the  dark-eyed,  demon- 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  27 

strative,  rebellious  girl  may  after  all  turn  out  to  be  a  passive 
being  compared  with  this  pink-and-white  bit  of  masculinity 
with  the  indeterminate  features. 

"  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  confidentially,  taking  her  into  a  corner, 
as  soon  as  his  mother  was  gone  out  to  examine  his  box,  and 
the  warm  parlour  had  taken  off  the  chill  he  had  felt  from  the 
long  drive,  "  you  don't  know  what  1  've  got  in  my  pockets," 
nodding  his  head  up  and  down  as  a  means  of  rousing  her 
sense  of  mystery. 

"  Xo,"  said  Maggie.  "  How  stodgy  they  look,  Tom  !  Is  it 
marls  (marbles)  or  cobnuts  ?  "  Maggie's  heart  sank  a  little, 
because  Tom  always  said  it  was  "  no  good  "  playing  with  her 
at  those  games,  she  played  so  badly. 

"  Marls  !  no  ;  I  've  swopped  all  my  marls  with  the  little  fel- 
lows, and  cobnuts  are  no  fun,  you  silly,  only  when  the  nuts  are 
green.  But  see  here  !  "  He  drew  something  half  out  of  his 
right-hand  pocket. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Maggie,  in  a  whisper.  "  I  can  see 
nothing  but  a  bit  of  yellow." 

"  Why,  it 's  —  a  —  new  —  guess,  Maggie  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  can't  guesri,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  impatiently. 

"  Don't  be  a  spitfire,  else  I  won't  tell  you,"  said  Tom, 
thrusting  his  hand  back  into  his  pocket  and  looking  deter- 
mined. 

"  No,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  imploringly,  laying  hold  of  the 
arm  that  was  held  stiffly  in  the  pocket.  "  I  'm  not  cross,  Tom  ; 
it  was  only  because  I  can't  bear  guessing.  Please  be  good 
to  me." 

Tom's  arm  slowly  relaxed,  and  he  said,  "Well,  then,  it 's  a  new 
fish-line  —  two  new  uns,  —  one  for  you,  Maggie,  all  to  yourself. 
I  would  n't  go  halves  in  the  toffee  and  gingerbread  on  purpose 
to  save  the  money  ;  and  Gibson  and  Spouncer  fought  with  me 
because  I  would  n't.  And  here's  hooks ;  see  here  —  I  say, 
iron't  we  go  and  fish  to-morrow  down  by  the  Round  Pool  ? 
And  you  shall  catch  your  own  fish,  Maggie,  and  put  the  worms 
on,  and  everything ;  won't  it  be  fun  ?  " 

Maggie's  answer  was  to  throw  her  arms  round  Tom's  neck 
and  hug  him,  and  hold  her  cheek  against  his  without  speaking, 
while  he  slowly  unwound  some  of  the  line,  saying,  after  a 
pause,  — 

"  Was  n't  I  a  good  brother,  now,  to  buy  you  a  line  all  to 
yourself  ?  You  know,  I  need  n't  have  bought  it,  if  I  had  n't 
liked." 

"Yes,  very,  very  good  —  I  do  love  you,  Tom." 


28  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Tom  had  put  the  line  back  in  his  pocket,  and  was  looking  at 
the  hooks  one  by  one,  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  And  the  fellows  fought  me,  because  I  would  n't  give  in 
about  the  toffee." 

"  Oh,  dear !  I  wish  they  would  n't  fight  at  your  school,  Tom. 
Did  n't  it  hurt  you  ?  " 

"Hurt  me?  no,"  said  Tom,  putting  up  the  hooks  again, 
t:iking  out  a  large  pocket-knife,  and  slowly  opening  the  largest 
blade,  which  he  looked  at  meditatively  as  he  rubbed  his  finger 
along  it.  Then  he  added,  — 

"  I  gave  Spouncer  a  black  eye,  I  know ;  that 's  what  lie  got 
by  wanting  to  leather  me;  I  was  n't  going  to  go  halves  because 
anybody  leathered  me." 

"  Oh,  how  brave  you  are,  Tom  !  I  think  you  're  like  Sam- 
son. If  there  came  a  lion  roaring  at  me,  I  think  you  'd  fight 
him,  wouldn't  you,  Tom  ?  " 

"How  can  a  lion  come  roaring  at  you,  you  silly  thing? 
There 's  no  lions,  only  in  the  shows." 

"No;  but  if  we  were  in  the  lion  countries  —  I  mean  in 
Africa,  where  it 's  very  hot ;  the  lions  eat  people  there.  I 
can  show  it  you  in  the  book  where  I  read  it." 

"  Well,  I  should  get  a  gun  and  shoot  him." 

"  But  if  you  had  n't  got  a  gun,  —  we  might  have  gone  out, 
you  know,  not  thinking,  just  as  we  go  fishing ;  and  then  a 
great  lion  might  run  towards  us  roaring,  and  we  could  n't  get 
away  from  him.  What  should  you  do,  Tom  ?  " 

Tom  paused,  and  at  last  turned  away  contemptuously, 
saying,  "But  the  lion  isn't  coming.  What's  the  use  of 
talking  ?  " 

"  But  I  like  to  fancy  how  it  would  be,"  said  Maggie,  follow- 
ing him.  "Just  think  what  you  would  do,  Tom." 

"  Oh,  don't  bother,  Maggie  !  you  're  such  a  silly.  I  shall  go 
and  see  my  rabbits." 

Maggie's  heart  began  to  flutter  with  fear.  She  dared  not  tell 
the  sad  truth  at  once,  but  she  walked  after  Tom  in  trembling 
silence  as  he  went  out,  thinking  how  she  could  tell  him  the 
news  so  as  to  soften  at  once  his  sorrow  and  his  anger;  for 
M  i'-,rgie  dreaded  Tom's  anger  of  all  things;  it  was  quite  a 
different  anger  from  her  own. 

"Tom,"  she  said  timidly,  when  they  were  out  of  doors, 
"  how  much  money  did  you  give  for  your  rabbits  ?  " 

"  Two  half-crowns  and  a  sixpence,"  said  Tom,  promptly. 

"  1  think  I  've  got  a  great  deal  more  than  that  in  my  steel 
purse  up-stairs.  I  '11  ask  mother  to  give  it  you." 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  29 

"  What  for  ?  "  said  Tom.  "  I  don't  want  your  money,  you 
silly  thing.  1  've  got  a  great  deal  more  money  than  you,  be- 
cause I  'in  a  boy.  I  always  have  half-sovereigns  and  sovereigns 
for  my  Christmas  boxes  because  I  shall  be  a  man,  and  you  only 
have  five-shilling  pieces,  because  you  're  only  a  girl." 

"Well,  but,  Tom  —  if  mother  would  let  me  give  you  two 
half-crowns  and  a  sixpence  out  of  my  purse  to  put  into  your 
pocket  and  spend,  you  know,  and  buy  some  more  rabbits 
with  it?" 

"  More  rabbits  ?     I  don't  want  any  more." 

"  Oh,  but,  Tom,  they  're  all  dead." 

Tom  stopped  immediately  in  his  walk  and  turned  round 
towards  Maggie.  "  You  forgot  to  feed  'em,  then,  and  Harry 
forgot  ? "  he  said,  his  colour  heightening  for  a  moment,  but 
soon  subsiding.  "  I  '11  pitch  into  Harry.  I  '11  have  him  turned 
away.  And  I  don't  love  you,  Maggie.  You  sha'n't  go  fishing 
with  me  to-morrow.  I  told  you  to  go  and  see  the  rabbits  every 
day."  He  walked  on  again. 

"Yes,  but  I  forgot  —  and  I  couldn't  help  it,  indeed, 
Tom.  I'm  so  very  sorry,"  said  Maggie,  while  the  tears 
rushed  fast. 

"  You  're  a  naughty  girl,"  said  Tom,  severely,  "  and  I  'm 
sorry  I  bought  you  the  fish-line.  I  don't  love  you." 

"  Oh,  Tom,  it 's  very  cruel,"  sobbed  Maggie.  "  I  'd  forgive 
you,  if  you  forgot  anything  —  I  would  n't  mind  what  you  did 
—  I  'd  forgive  you  and  love  you." 

"Yes,  you're  a  silly  ;  but  I  never  do  forget  things,  1 
don't." 

"  Oh,  please  forgive  me,  Tom ;  my  heart  will  break,"  said 
Maggie,  shaking  with  sobs,  clinging  to  Tom's  arm,  and  laying 
her  wet  cheek  on  his  shoulder. 

Tom  shook  her  off,  and  stopped  again,  saying  in  a  per- 
emptory tone,  "  Now,  Maggie,  you  just  listen.  Are  n't  I  a 
good  brother  to  you?" 

"  Ye-ye-es,"  sobbed  Maggie,  her  chin  rising  and  falling 
convulsedly. 

"  Did  n't  I  think  about  your  fish-line  all  this  quarter,  and 
mean  to  buy  it,  and  saved  my  money  o'  purpose,  and  would  n't 
go  halves  in  the  toffee,  and  Spouncer  fought  me  because  I 
wouldn't?" 

"  Ye-ye-es  —  and  I  —  lo-lo-love  you  so,  Tom." 

"But  you  're  a  naughty  girl.  Last  holidays  you  licked 
the  paint  off  my  lozenge-box,  and  the  holidays  before  that 
you  let  the  boat  drag  my  fish-line  down  when  I  'd  set  you  to 


30  THE  MILL    ON   THE  FLOSS. 

watch  it,  and  you  pushed  your  head  through  my  kite,  all  for 
nothing." 

"  But  I  did  n't  mean,"  said  Maggie  ;  "  I  could  n't  help  it." 

"  Yes,  you  could,"  said  Tom,  "  if  you  'd  minded  what  you 
were  doing.  And  you  're  a  naughty  girl,  and  you  sha'n't  go 
fishing  with  me  to-morrow." 

With  this  terrible  conclusion,  Tom  ran  away  from  Maggie 
towards  the  mill,  meaning  to  greet  Luke  there,  and  complain 
to  him  of  Harry. 

Maggie  stood  motionless,  except  from  her  sobs,  for  a  minute 
or  two ;  then  she  turned  round  and  ran  into  the  house,  and  up 
to  her  attic,  where  she  sat  on  the  floor,  and  laid  her  head 
against  the  worm-eaten  shelf,  with  a  crushing  sense  of  misery. 
Tom  was  come  home,  and  she  had  thought  how  happy  she 
should  be  ;  and  now  he  was  cruel  to  her.  What  use  was  any- 
thing, if  Tom  did  n't  love  her  ?  Oh,  he  was  very  cruel ! 
Hadn't  she  wanted  to  give  him  the  money,  and  said  how 
very  sorry  she  was  ?  She  knew  she  was  naughty  to  her 
mother,  but  she  had  never  been  naughty  to  Tom  —  had 
never  meant  to  be  naughty  to  him. 

"  Oh,  he  is  cruel ! "  Maggie  sobbed  aloud,  finding  a  wretched 
pleasure  in  the  hollow  resonance  that  came  through  the  long 
empty  space  of  the  attic.  She  never  thought  of  beating  or 
grinding  her  Fetish;  she  was  too  miserable  to  be  angry. 

These  bitter  sorrows  of  childhood !  when  sorrow  is  all  new 
and  strange,  when  hope  has  not  yet  got  wings  to  fly  beyond 
the  days  and  weeks,  and  the  space  from  summer  to  summer 
S'-cnis  measureless. 

Maggie  soon  thought  she  had  been  hours  in  the  attic,  and 
it  must  be  tea-time,  and  they  were  all  having  their  tea,  and 
not  thinking  of  her.  Well,  then,  she  would  stay  up  there 
and  starve  herself,  —  hide  herself  behind  the  tub,  and  stay 
there  all  night, — and  then  they  would  all  be  frightened,  and 
Turn  would  be  sorry.  Thus  Maggie  thought  in  the  pride  of  her 
heart,  as  she  crept  behind  the  tub ;  but  presently  she  began  to 
cry  again  at  the  idea  that  they  did  n'*t  mind  her  being  there- 
It'  she  went  down  again  to  Torn  now  —  would  he  forgive  her? 
Perhaps  her  father  would  be  there,  and  he  would  take  her 
part.  But  then  she  wanted  Tom  to  forgive  her  because  he 
loved  her,  not  because  his  father  told  him.  No,  she  would 
never  go  down  if  Tom  did  n't  come  to  fetch  her.  This  resolu- 
tion lasted  in  great  intensity  for  five  dark  minutes  behind  the 
tub;  but  then  the  need  of  being  loved- — the  strongest  need  in 
poor  Maggie's  nature  —  began  to  wrestle  with  her  pride,  and 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  31 

soon  threw  it.  She  crept  from  behind  her  tub  into  the  twi- 
light of  the  long  attic,  but  just  then  she  heard  a  quick  footstep 
on  the  stairs. 

Tom  had  been  too  much  interested  in  his  talk  with  Luke,  in 
going  the  round  of  the  premises,  walking  in  and  out  where  he 
pleased,  and  whittling  sticks  without  any  particular  reason, — 
except  that  he  didn't  whittle  sticks  at  school,  —  to  think  of 
Maggie  and  the  effect  his  anger  had  produced  on  her.  He 
meant  to  punish  her,  and  that  business  having  been  performed, 
he  occupied  himself  with  other  matters,  like  a  practical  person. 
But  when  he  had  been  called  in  to  tea,  his  father  said,  "Why, 
where's  the  little  wench?"  and  Mrs.  Tulliver,  almost  at  the 
same  moment,  said,  "Where's  your  little  sister?" — both  of 
them  having  supposed  that  Maggie  and  Tom  had  been  together 
all  the  afternoon. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom.  He  did  n't  want  to  "  tell  "  of 
Maggie,  though  he  was  angry  with  her ;  for  Tom  Tulliver  was 
a  lad  of  honour. 

"  What !  has  n't  she  been  playing  with  you  all  this  while  ?  " 
said  the  father.  "She'd  been  thinking  o'  nothing  but  your 
coming  home." 

"  I  have  n't  seen  her  this  two  hours,"  says  Tom,  commencing 
on  the  plumcake. 

"  Goodness  heart !  she 's  got  drownded  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  rising  from  her  seat  and  running  to  the  window. 
*'  How  could  you  let  her  do  so  ? "  she  added,  as  became  a 
fearful  woman,  accusing  she  did  n't  know  whom  of  she  did  n't 
know  what. 

"Nay,  nay,  she  's  none  drownded,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 
"  You ' ve  been  naughty  to  her,  I  doubt,  Tom  ?  " 

"  I  'm  sure  I  have  n't,  father,"  said  Tom,  indignantly.  "  I 
think  she's  in  the  house." 

"Perhaps  up  in  that  attic,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "a-singing 
and  talking  to  herself,  and  forgetting  all  about  meal-times." 

"You  go  and  fetch  her  down,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
rather  sharply, — his  perspicacity  or  his  fatherly  fondness 
for  Maggie  making  him  suspect  that  the  lad  had  been  hard 
upon  "  the  little  un,"  else  she  would  never  have  left  his  side. 
"And  be  good  to  her,  do  you  hear  ?  Else  I'll  let  you  know 
better." 

Tom  never  disobeyed  his  father,  for  Mr.  Tulliver  was  a  per- 
emptory man,  and,  as  he  said,  would  never  let  anybody  get  hold 
of  his  whip-hand;  but  he  went  out  rather  sullenly,  carrying 
his  piece  of  plumcake,  and  not  intending  to  reprieve  Maggie's 


32  THE    MILL    ON    THE    FLOSS. 

punishment,  which  was  no  more  than  she  deserved.  Tom  was 
only  thirteen,  and  had  no  decided  views  in  grammar  and  arith- 
metic, regarding  them  for  the  most  part  as  open  questions,  but 
he  was  particularly  clear  and  positive  on  one  point,  —  namely, 
that  he  would  punish  everybody  who  deserved  it.  Why,  he 
would  n't  have  minded  being  punished  himself  if  he  deserved 
it ;  but,  then,  he  never  did  deserve  it. 

It  was  Tom's  step,  then,  that  Maggie  heard  on  the  stairs, 
when  her  need  of  love  had  triumphed  over  her  pride,  and  she 
was  going  down  with  her  swollen  eyes  and  dishevelled  hair  to 
beg  for  pity.  At  least  her  father  would  stroke  her  head  and 
say,  "  Never  mind,  my  wench."  It  is  a  wonderful  subduer, 
this  need  of  love,  —  this  hunger  of  the  heart,  —  as  peremptory 
as  that  other  hunger  by  which  Nature  forces  us  to  submit  to 
the  yoke,  and  change  the  face  of  the  world. 

But  she  knew  Tom's  step,  and  her  heart  began  to  beat 
violently  with  the  sudden  shock  of  hope.  He  only  stood  still 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  said,  "Maggie,  you're  to  come 
down."  But  she,  rushed  to  him  and  clung  round  his  neck, 
sobbing,  "Oh,  Tom,  please  forgive  me  —  I  can't  bear  it  —  I  will 
always  be  good  —  always  remember  things  —  do  love  me  — 
please,  dear  Tom  !  " 

We  learn  to  restrain  ourselves  as  we  get  older.  We  keep 
apart  when  we  have  quarrelled,  express  ourselves  in  well-bred 
phrases,  and  in  this  way  preserve  a  dignitied  alienation,  show- 
ing much  firmness  on  one  side,  and  swallowing  much  grief  on 
the  other.  We  no  longer  approximate  in  our  behaviour  to  the 
mere  impulsiveness  of  the  lower  animals,  but  conduct  ourselves 
in  every  respect  like  members  of  a  highly  civilised  society. 
Maggie  and  Tom  were  still  very  much  like  young  animals,  and 
so  she  could  rub  her  cheek  against  his,  and  kiss  his  ear  in  a 
random  sobbing  way;  and  there  were  tender  fibres  in  the  lad 
that  had  been  used  to  answer  to  Maggie's  fondling,  so  that 
he  behaved  with  a  weakness  quite  inconsistent  with  his  reso- 
lution to  punish  her  as  much  as  she  deserved.  He  actually 
began  to  kiss  her  in  return,  and  say, — 

"  Don't  cry,  then,  Magsie ;  here,  eat  a  bit  o'  cake." 

Maggie's  sobs  began  to  subside,  and  she  put  out  her  mouth 
for  the  cake  and  bit  a  piece ;  and  then  Tom  bit  a  piece,  just  for 
company,  and  they  ate  together  and  rubbed  each  other's  cheeks 
and  brows  and  noses  together,  while  they  ate,  with  a  humilia- 
ting resemblance  to  two  friendly  ponies. 

"  Come  along,  Magsie,  and  have  tea,"  said  Tom  at  last,  when 
there  was  no  more  cake  except  what  was  down-stairs. 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  33 

So  ended  the  sorrows  of  this  day,  and  the  next  morning 
Maggie  was  trotting  with  her  own  fishing-rod  in  one  hand  and 
a  handle  of  the  basket  in  the  other,  stepping  always,  by  a 
peculiar  gift,  in  the  muddiest  places,  and  looking  darkly  radiant 
from  under  her  beaver-bonnet  because  Tom  was  good  to  her. 
She  had  told  Tom,  however,  that  she  should  like  him  to  put 
the  worms  on  the  hook  for  her,  although  she  accepted  his 
word  when  he  assured  her  that  worms  couldn't  feel  (it  was 
Tom's  private  opinion  that  it  didn't  much  matter  if  they  did). 
He  knew  all  about  worms,  and  fish,  and  those  things ;  and  what 
birds  were  mischievous,  and  how  padlocks  opened,  and  which 
way  the  handles  of  the  gates  were  to  be  lifted.  Maggie  thought 
this  sort  of  knowledge  was  very  wonderful,  —  much  more  diffi- 
cult than  remembering  what  was  in  the  books ;  and  she  was 
rather  in  awe  of  Tom's  superiority,  for  he  was  the  only  person 
who  called  her  knowledge  "stuff,"  and  did  not  feel  surprised 
at  her  cleverness.  Tom,  indeed,  was  of  opinion  that  Maggie 
was  a  silly  little  thing;  all  girls  were  silly,  —  they  couldn't 
throw  a  stone  so  as  to  hit  anything,  could  n't  do  anything  with 
a  pocket-knife,  and  were  frightened  at  frogs.  Still,  he  was 
very  fond  of  his  sister,  and  meant  always  to  take  care  of  her, 
make  her  his  housekeeper,  and  punish  her  when  she  did 
wrong. 

They  were  on  their  way  to  the  Bound  Pool,  —  that  wonder- 
ful pool,  which  the  floods  had  made  a  long  while  ago.  No  one 
knew  how  deep  it  was ;  and  it  was  mysterious,  too,  that  it 
should  be  almost  a  perfect  round,  framed  in  with  willows  and 
tall  reeds,  so  that  the  water  was  only  to  be  seen  when  you  got 
close  to  the  brink.  The  sight  of  the  old  favourite  spot  always 
heightened  Tom's  good-humour,  and  he  spoke  to  Maggie  in  the 
most  amicable  whispers,  as  he  opened  the  precious  basket  and 
prepared  their  tackle.  He  threw  her  line  for  her,  and  put  the 
rod  into  her  hand.  Maggie  thought  it  probable  that  the  small 
fish  would  come  to  her  hook,  and  the  large  ones  to  Tom's. 
But  she  had  forgotten  all  about  the  fish,  and  was  looking 
dreamily  at  the  glassy  water,  when  Tom  said,  in  a  loud  whisper, 
"  Look,  look,  Maggie  !  "  and  came  running  to  prevent  her  from 
snatching  her  line  away. 

Maggie  was  frightened  lest  she  had  been  doing  something 
wrong,  as  usual,  but  presently  Tom  drew  out  her  line  and 
brought  a  large  tench  bouncing  on  the  grass. 

Tom  was  excited. 

"  O  Magsie,  you  little  duck !     Empty  the  basket." 

Maggie  was  not  conscious  of  unusual  merit,  but  it  was  enough 


34  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

that  Tom  called  her  Magsie,  and  was  pleased  with  her.  There 
was  nothing  to  mar  her  delight  in  the  whispers  and  the  dreamy 
silences,  when  she  listened  to  the  light  dipping  sounds  of  the 
rising  fish,  and  the  gentle  rustling,  as  if  the  willows  and  the 
reeds  and  the  water  had  their  happy  whisperings  also.  _M:ig- 
gie  thought  it  would  make  a  very  nice  heaven  to  sit  by  the 
pool  in  that  way,  and  never  be  scolded.  She  never  knew  she 
had  a  bite  till  Tom  told  her;  but  she  liked  fishing  very  much. 

It  was  one  of  their  happy  mornings.  They  trotted  along 
;ind  sat  down  together,  with  no  thought  that  life  would  ever 
change  much  for  them :  they  would  only  get  bigger  and  not  go 
to  school,  and  it  would  always  be  like  the  holidays  ;  they  would 
always  live  together  and  be  fond  of  each  other.  And  the  mill 
with  its  booming ;  the  great  chestnut-tree  under  which  they 
played  at  houses ;  their  own  little  river,  the  Ripple,  where 
the  banks  seemed  like  home,  and  Tom  was  always  seeing  the 
water-rats,  while  Maggie  gathered  the  purple  plumy  tops  of 
the  reeds,  which  she  forgot  and  dropped  afterwards ;  above 
all,  the  great  Floss,  along  which  they  wandered  with  a  sense 
of  travel,  to  see  the  rushing  spring-tide,  the  awful  Eagre,  come 
up  like  a  hungry  monster,  or  to  see  the  Great  Ash  which  had 
once  wailed  and  groaned  like  a  man,  these  things  would 
always  be  just  the  same  to  them.  Tom  thought  people  were 
at  a  disadvantage  who  lived  on  any  other  spot  of  the  globe ; 
and  Maggie,  when  she  read  about  Christiana  passing  "the 
river  over  which  there  is  no  bridge,"  always  saw  the  Floss 
between  the  green  pastures  by  the  Great  Ash. 

Life  did  change  for  Tom  and  Maggie ;  and  yet  they  were  not 
wrong  in  believing  that  the  thoughts  and  loves  of  these  first 
years  would  always  make  part  of  their  lives.  We  could  never 
have  loved  the  earth  so  well  if  we  had  had  no  childhood  in  it, 
—  if  it  were  not  the  earth  where  the  same  flowers  come  up 
again  every  spring  that  we  used  to  gather  with  our  tiny  fingers 
as  we  sat  lisping  to  ourselves  on  the  grass;  the  same  hips 
;'iid  haws  on  the  autumn  hedgerows;  the  same  redbreasts 
that  we  used  to  call  "  God's  birds,"  because  they  did  no  harm 
to  the  precious  crops.  What  novelty  is  worth  that  sweet 
monotony  where  everything  is  known,  and  loved  because  it  is 
known  ? 

The  wood  I  walk  in  on  this  mild  May  day,  with  the  young 
yellow-brown  foliage  of  the  oaks  between  me  and  the  blue  sky, 
the  white  star-flowers  and  the  blue-eyed  speedwell  and  the 
ground  ivy  at  my  feet,  what  grove  of  tropic  palms,  what 
strange  ferns  or  splendid  broad-petalled  blossoms,  could  ever 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  35 

thrill  such  deep  and  delicate  fibres  within  me  as  this  home 
scene  ?  These  familiar  flowers,  these  well-remembered  bird- 
notes,  this  sky,  with  its  fitful  brightness,  these  furrowed  and 
grassy  fields,  each  with  a  sort  of  personality  given  to  it  by  the 
capricious  hedgerows,  —  such  things  as  these  are  the  mother 
tongue  of  our  imagination,  the  language  that  is  laden  with  all 
the  subtle,  inextricable  associations  the  fleeting  hours  of  our 
childhood  left  behind  them.  Our  delight  in  the  sunshine  on 
the  deep-bladed  grass  to-day  might  be  no  more  than  the  faint 
perception  of  wearied  souls,  if  it  were  not  for  the  sunshine  and 
the  grass  in  the  far-off  years  which  still  live  in  us,  and  trans- 
form our  perception  into  love. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE    AUNTS    AND    UNCLES    ARE    COMING. 

IT  was  Easter  week,  and  Mrs.  Tulliver's  cheesecakes  were 
more  exquisitely  light  than  usual.  "  A  puff  o'  wind  'ud  make 
'em  blow  about  like  feathers,"  Kezia  the  housemaid  said, 
feeling  proud  to  live  under  a  mistress  who  could  make  such 
pastry ;  so  that  no  season  or  circumstances  could  have  been 
more  propitious  for  a  family  party,  even  if  it  had  not  been  ad- 
visable to  consult  sister  Glegg  and  sister  Pullet  about  Tom's 
going  to  school. 

"  I  'd  as  lief  not  invite  sister  Deane  this  time,"  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  "for  she's  as  jealous  and  having  as  can  be,  and's 
allays  trying  to  make  the  worst  o'  my  poor  children  to  their 
aunts  and  uncles." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  ask  her  to  come.  I  never 
hardly  get  a  bit  o'  talk  with  Deane  now ;  we  have  n't  had  hiii 
this  six  months.  What 's  it  matter  what  she  says  ?  My  chil- 
dren need  be  beholding  to  nobody." 

"  That 's  what  you  allays  say,  Mr.  Tulliver ;  but  I  'm  sure 
there 's  nobody  o'  your  side,  neither  aunt  nor  uncle,  to  leave 
'em  so  much  as  a  five-pound  note  for  a  leggicy.  And  there 's 
sister  Glegg,  and  sister  Pullet  too,  saving  money  unknown, 
for  they  put  by  all  their  own  interest  and  butter-money  too ; 
their  husbands  buy  'em  everything."  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  a 


36  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

mild  woman,  but  even  a  sheep  will  face  about  a  little  when 
she  has  lambs. 

"Tchuh!"  said  Mr.  Tnlliver.  "It  takes  a  big  loaf  when 
there's  many  to  breakfast.  What  signifies  your  sisters'  bits 
o'  money  when  they've  got  hali'-a-do/.en  nevvies  and  nieces  to 
divide  it  among  ?  And  your  sister  Deane  won't  get  'em  to 
leave  all  to  one,  I  reckon,  and  make  the  country  cry  shame 
on  'em  when  they  are  dead  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  what  she  won't  get  'em  to  do,"  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  "  for  my  children  are  so  awk'ard  wi'  their  aunts  and 
uncles.  'Maggie's  ten  times  naughtier  when  they  come  than 
she  is  other  days,  and  Tom  doesn't  like  'em,  bless  him!  — 
though  it 's  more  nat'ral  in  a  boy  than  a  gell.  And  there  's  Lucy 
Deane 's  such  a  good  child, — you  may  set  her  on  a  stool,  and 
there  she'll  sit  for  an  hour  together,  and  never  offer  to  get  oil. 
I  can't  help  loving  the  child  as  if  she  was  my  own  ;  and  I  'm  sure 
she 's  more  like  my  child  than  sister  Deane's,  for  she  'd  allays  a 
very  poor  colour  for  one  of  our  family,  sister  Deane  had." 

"  Well,  well,  if  you  're  fond  o'  the  child,  ask  her  father  and 
mother  to  bring  her  with  'em.  And  won't  you  ask  their  aunt 
and  uncle  Moss  too,  and  some  o'  their  children  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  Mr.  Tulliver,  why,  there  'd  be  eight  people  besides 
the  children,  and  I  must  put  two  more  leaves  i'  the  table, 
besides  reaching  down  more  o'  the  dinner-service ;  and  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do,  as  my  sisters  and  your  sister  don't  suit 
well  together." 

"  Well,  well,  do  as  you  like,  Bessy,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  tak- 
ing up  his  hat  and  walking  out  to  the  mill.  Few  wives  were 
more  submissive  than  Mrs.  Tulliver  on  all  points  unconnected 
with  her  family  relations ;  but  she  had  been  a  Miss  Dodson, 
and  the  Dodsons  were  a  very  respectable  family  indeed,  —  as 
much  looked  up  to  as  any  in  their  own  parish,  or  the  next  to 
it.  The  Miss  Dodsons  had  always  been  thought  to  hold  up 
their  heads  very  high,  and  no  one  was  surprised  the  two  eldest 
h:id  married  so  well,  —  not  at  an  early  age,  for  that  was  not  the 
practice  of  the  Dodson  family.  There  were  particular  ways  of 
doing  everything  in  that  family:  particular  ways  of  bleaching 
the  linen,  of  making  the  cowslip  wine,  curing  the  hams,  and 
keeping  the  bottled  gooseberries ;  so  that  no  daughter  of  that 
house  could  be  indifferent  to  the  privilege  of  having  been  born 
a  Dodson,  rather  than  a  Gibson  or  a  Watson.  Funerals  were  al- 
ways conducted  with  peculiar  propriety  in  the  Dodson  family  : 
the  hat-bands  were  never  of  a  blue  shade,  the  gloves  never 
split  at  the  thumb,  everybody  was  a  mourner  who  ought  to  be, 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  37 

and  there  were  always  scarfs  for  the  bearers.  When  one  of 
the  family  was  in  trouble  or  sickness,  all  the  rest  went  to  visit 
the  unfortunate  member,  usually  at  the  same  time,  and  did  not 
shrink  from  uttering  the  most  disagreeable  truths  that  correct 
family  feeling  dictated;  if  the  illness  or  trouble  was  the 
sufferer's  own  fault,  it  was  not  in  the  practice  of  the  Dodson 
family  to  shrink  from  saying  so.  In  short,  there  was  in  this 
family  a  peculiar  tradition  as  to  what  was  the  right  thing  in 
household  management  and  social  demeanour,  and  the  only 
bitter  circumstance  attending  this  superiority  was  a  painful 
inability  to  approve  the  condiments  or  the  conduct  of  families 
ungoverned  by  the  Dodson  tradition.  A  female  Dodson,  when 
in  "strange  houses,"  always  ate  dry  bread  with  her  tea,  and 
declined  any  sort  of  preserves,  having  no  confidence  in  the 
butter,  and  thinking  that  the  preserves  had  probably  begun 
to  ferment  from  want  of  due  sugar  and  boiling.  There  were 
some  Dodsons  less  like  the  family  than  others,  that  was 
admitted;  but  in  so  far  as  they  were  "kin,"  they  were  of 
necessity  better  than  those  who  were  "  no  kin."  And  it  is 
remarkable  that  while  no  individual  Dodson  was  satisfied  with 
any  other  individual  Dodson,  each  was  satisfied,  not  only  with 
him  or  her  self,  but  with  the  Dodsons  collectively.  The  fee- 
blest member  of  a  family  —  the  one  who  has  the  least  character 
—  is  often  the  merest  epitome  of  the  family  habits  and  tradi- 
tions ;  and  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  a  thorough  Dodson,  though  a 
mild  one,  as  small-beer,  so  long  as  it  is  anything,  is  only  de- 
scribable  as  very  weak  ale :  and  though  she  had  groaned 
a  little  in  her  youth  under  the  yoke  of  her  elder  sisters,  and 
still  shed  occasional  tears  at  their  sisterly  reproaches,  it  was 
not  in  Mrs.  Tulliver  to  be  an  innovator  on  the  family  ideas. 
She  was  thankful  to  have  been  a  Dodson,  and  to  have  one 
child  who  took  after  her  own  family,  at  least  in  his  features 
and  complexion,  in  liking  salt  and  in  eating  beans,  which  a 
Tulliver  never  did. 

In  other  respects  the  true  Dodson  was  partly  latent  in  Tom, 
and  he  was  as  far  from  appreciating  his  "kin"  on  the  mother's 
side  as  Maggie  herself,  generally  absconding  for  the  day  with 
a  large  supply  of  the  most  portable  food,  when  he  received 
timely  warning  that  his  aunts  and  uncles  were  coming,  —  a 
moral  symptom  from  which  his  aunt  Glegg  deduced  the  gloom- 
iest views  of  his  future.  It  was  rather  hard  on  Maggie  that 
Tom  always  absconded  without  letting  her  into  the  secret, 
but  the  weaker  sex  are  acknowledged  to  be  serious  impedi- 
menta in  cases  of  night. 


38  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

On  Wednesday,  the  day  before  the  aunts  and  uncles  were 
coming,  there  were  such  various  and  suggestive  scents,  as  of 
plumcakes  in  the  oven  and  jellies  in  the  hot  state,  mingled 
with  tin'  aroma  of  gravy,  that  it  was  impossible  to  feel  alto- 
gether gloomy :  there  was  hope  in  the  air.  Tom  and  Maggie 
made  several  inroads  into  the  kitchen,  and,  like  other  marau- 
ders, were  induced  to  keep  aloof  for  a  time  only  by  being 
allowed  to  carry  away  a  sufficient  load  of  booty. 

"Tom,"  said  Maggie,  as  they  sat  on  the  boughs  of  the  elder- 
tree,  eating  their  jam-puffs,  "shall  you  run  away  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Tom,  slowly,  when  he  had  finished  his  puff,  and 
was  eyeing  the  third,  which  was  to  be  divided  between  them, 
—  "  no,  I  sha'n't." 

"  Why,  Tom  ?     Because  Lucy  's  coming  ?  " 

"  Xo,"  said  Tom,  opening  his  pocket-knife  and  holding  it 
over  the  puff,  with  his  head  on  one  side  in  a  dubitative  man- 
ner. (It  was  a  difficult  problem  to  divide  that  very  irregular 
polygon  into  two  equal  parts.)  "  What  do  /  care  about  Lucy  ? 
She  's  only  a  girl,  — she  can't  play  at  bandy." 

"  Is  it  the  tipsy-cake,  then  ? "  said  Maggie,  exerting  her 
hypothetic  powers,  while  she  leaned  forward  towards  Tom 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  hovering  knife. 

"  No,  you  silly,  that  '11  be  good  the  day  after.  It 's  the  pud- 
den.  I  know  what  the  pudden  's  to  be,  —  apricot  roll-up  —  O 
my  buttons !  " 

With  this  interjection,  the  knife  descended  on  the  puff,  and 
it  was  in  two,  but  the  result  was  not  satisfactory  to  Tom,  for 
he  still  eyed  the  halves  doubtfully.  At  last  he  said,  — 

'•  Shut  your  eyes,  Maggie." 

"What  for?" 

"  You  never  mind  what  for.     Shut  'em  when  I  tell  you." 

Maggie  obeyed. 

"  Now,  which  '11  you  have,  Maggie,  —  right  hand  or  left  ?  " 

"  I  '11  have  that  with  the  jam  run  out,"  said  Maggie,  keep- 
ing her  eyes  shut  to  please  Tom. 

"Why,  you  don't  like  that,  you  silly.  You  may  have  it  if 
it  conies  to  you  fair,  but  I  sha'n't  give  it  you  without.  Right 
or  left, — you  choose,  now.  Ha-a-a!"  said  Tom,  in  a  tone  of 
exasperation,  as  Maggie  peeped.  "  You  keep  your  eyes  shut, 
now,  else  you  sha'n't  have  any." 

Maggie's  power  of  sacrifice  did  not  extend  so  far ;  indeed, 
I  fear  she  cared  less  that  Tom  should  enjoy  the  utmost  pos- 
sible amount  of  puff,  than  that  he  should  be  pleased  with  her 
for  giving  him  the  best  bit.  So  she  shut  her  eyes  quite  close, 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  89 

till  Tom  told  her  to  "  say  which,"  and  then  she  said,  "  Left 
hand." 

"  You  've  got  it,"  said  Torn,  in  rather  a  bitter  tone. 

"  What !  the  bit  with  the  jam  run  out  ?  " 

"  oSTo ;  here,  take  it,"  said  Tom,  firmly,  handing  decidedly 
the  best  piece  to  Maggie. 

"  Oh,  please,  Tom,  have  it ;  I  don't  mind  —  I  like  the  other ; 
please  take  this." 

"  Xo,  I  sha'n't,"  said  Tom,  almost  crossly,  beginning  on  his 
own  inferior  piece. 

Maggie,  thinking  it  was  no  use  to  contend  further,  began 
too,  and  ate  up  her  half  puff  with  considerable  relish  as  well  as 
rapidity.  But  Tom  had  finished  first,  and  had  to  look  on  while 
Maggie  ate  her  last  morsel  or  two,  feeling  in  himself  a  capacity 
for  more.  Maggie  did  n't  know  Tom  was  looking  at  her  ;  she 
was  seesawing  on  tne  elder-bough,  lost  to  almost  everything 
but  a  vague  sense  of  jam  and  idleness. 

"  Oh,  you  greedy  thing ! "  said  Tom,  when  she  had  swal- 
lowed the  last  morsel.  He  was  conscious  of  having  acted  very 
fairly,  and  thought  she  ought  to  have  considered  this,  and 
made  up  to  him  for  it.  He  would  have  refused  a  bit  of  hers 
beforehand,  but  one  is  naturally  at  a  different  point  of  view 
before  and  after  one's  own  share  of  puff  is  swallowed. 

Maggie  turned  quite  pale.  "  Oh,  Tom,  why  did  n't  you  ask 
me?" 

"  I  was  n't  going  to  ask  you  for  a  bit,  you  greedy.  You 
might  have  thought  of  it  without,  when  you  knew  I  gave  you 
the  best  bit." 

"But  I  wanted  you  to  have  it;  you  know  I  did,"  said 
Maggie,  in  an  injured  tone. 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  n't  going  to  do  what  was  n't  fair,  like 
Spouncer.  He  always  takes  the  best  bit,  if  you  don't  punch 
him  for  it ;  and  if  you  choose  the  best  with  your  eyes  shut,  he 
changes  his  hands.  But  if  I  go  halves,  I  '11  go  'em  fair  ;  only 
I  would  n't  be  a  greedy." 

With  this  cutting  innuendo,  Tom  jumped  down  from  his 
bough,  and  threw  a  stone  with  a  "  hoigh  !  "  as  a  friendly  atten- 
tion to  Yap,  who  had  also  been  looking  on  while  the  eatables 
vanished,  with  an  agitation  of  his  ears  and  feelings  which 
could  hardly  have  been  without  bitterness.  Yet  the  excellent 
dog  accepted  Tom's  attention  with  as  much  alacrity  as  if  he 
had  been  treated  quite  generously. 

But  Maggie,  gifted  with  that  superior  power  of  misery 
which  distinguishes  the  human  being,  and  places  him  at  a 


40  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

proud  distance  from  the  most  melancholy  chimpanzee,  sat  still 
on  her  bough,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  keen  sense  of  un- 
merited reproach.  She  would  have  given  the  world  not  to 
have  eaten  all  her  puff,  and  to  have  saved  some  of  it  for  Tom. 
Not  but  that  the  puff  was  very  nice,  for  Maggie's  palate  was 
not  at  all  obtuse,  but  she  would  have  gone  without  it  many 
times  over,  sooner  than  Tom  should  call  her  greedy  and  be 
cross  with  her.  And  he  had  said  he  wouldn't  have  it,  and 
she  ate  it  without  thinking ;  how  could  she  help  it  ?  The 
tears  flowed  so  plentifully  that  Maggie  saw  nothing  around 
her  for  the  next  ten  minutes ;  but  by  that  time  resentment 
began  to  give  way  to  the  desire  of  reconciliation,  and  she 
jumped  from  her  bough  to  look  for  Tom.  He  was  no  longer 
in  the  paddock  behind  the  rickyard ;  where  was  he  likely  to 
be  gone,  and  Yap  with  him  ?  Maggie  ran  to  the  high  bank 
against  the  great  holly-tree,  where  she  could  see  far  away 
towards  the  Floss.  There  was  Tom ;  but  her  heart  sank 
again  as  she  saw  how  far  off  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  great 
river,  and  that  he  had  another  companion  besides  Yap,  — 
naughty  Bob  Jakin,  whose  official,  if  not  natural,  function  of 
frightening  the  birds  was  just  now  at  a  standstill.  Maggie  felt 
sure  that  Bob  was  wicked,  without  very  distinctly  knowing 
why ;  unless  it  was  because  Bob's  mother  was  a  dreadfully 
large  fat  woman,  who  lived  at  a  queer  round  house  down  the 
river ;  and  once,  when  Maggie  and  Tom  had  wandered  thither, 
there  rushed  out  a  brindled  dog  that  would  n't  stop  barking ; 
and  when  Bob's  mother  came  out  after  it,  and  screamed  above 
the  barking  to  tell  them  not  to  be  frightened,  Maggie  thought 
she  was  scolding  them  fiercely,  and  her  heart  beat  with  terror. 
Maggie  thought  it  very  likely  that  the  round  house  had  snakes 
on  the  floor,  and  bats  in  the  bed-room ;  for  she  had  seen  Bob 
take  off  his  cap  to  show  Tom  a  little  snake  that  was  inside  it, 
and  another  time  he  had  a  handful  of  young  bats  :  altogether, 
he  was  an  irregular  character,  perhaps  even  slightly  diabolical, 
judging  from  his  intimacy  with  snakes  and  bats ;  and  to 
crown  all,  when  Tom  had  Bob  for  a  companion,  he  did  n't 
mi  ml  about  Maggie,  and  would  never  let  her  go  with  him. 

It  must  be  owned  that  Tom  was  fond  of  Bob's  company. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise?  Bob  knew,  directly  he  saw  a 
bird's  egg,  whether  it  was  a  swallow's,  or  a  tomtit's,  or  a 
yellow-hammer's ;  he  found  out  all  the  wasps'  nests,  and 
could  set  all  sorts  of  traps ;  he  could  climb  the  trees  like  a 
squirrel,  and  had  quite  a  magical  power  of  detecting  hedge- 
hogs and  stoats ;  and  he  had  courage  to  do  things  that  were 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  41 

rather  naughty,  such  as  making  gaps  in  the  hedgerows,  throw- 
ing stones  after  the  sheep,  and  killing  a  cat  that  was  wander- 
ing incognito.  Such  qualities  in  an  inferior,  who  could  always 
be  treated  with  authority  in  spite  of  his  superior  knowingness, 
had  necessarily  a  fatal  fascination  for  Tom ;  and  every  holi- 
day-time Maggie  was  sure  to  have  days  of  grief  because  he 
had  gone  off  with  Bob. 

Well !  there  was  no  hope  for  it ;  he  was  gone  now,  and  Mag- 
gie could  think  of  no  comfort  but  to  sit  down  by  the  hollow, 
or  wander  by  the  hedgerow,  and  fancy  it  was  all  different,  re- 
fashioning her  little  world  into  just  what  she  should  like  it 
to  be. 

Maggie's  was  a  troublous  life,  and  this  was  the  form  in  which 
she  took  her  opium. 

Meanwhile  Tom,  forgetting  all  about  Maggie  and  the  sting 
of  reproach  which  he  had  left  in  her  heart,  was  hurrying  along 
with  Bob,  whom  he  had  met  accidentally,  to  the  scene  of  a 
great  rat-catching  in  a  neighbouring  barn.  Bob  knew  all  about 
this  particular  affair,  and  spoke  of  the  sport  with  an  enthu- 
siasm which  no  one  who  is  not  either  divested  of  all  manly 
feeling,  or  pitiably  ignorant  of  rat-catching,  can  fail  to  ima- 
gine. For  a  person  suspected  of  preternatural  wickedness, 
Bob  was  really  not  so  very  villanous-looking ;  there  was  even 
something  agreeable  in  his  snub-nosed  face,  with  its  close- 
curled  border  of  red  hair.  But  then  his  trousers  were  always 
rolled  up  at  the  knee,  for  the  convenience  of  wading  on  the 
slightest  notice ;  and  his  virtue,  supposing  it  to  exist,  was  un- 
deniably "virtue  in  rags,"  which,  on  the  authority  even  of 
bilious  philosophers,  who  think  all  well-dressed  merit  over- 
paid, is  notoriously  likely  to  remain  unrecognised  (perhaps 
because  it  is  seen  so  seldom). 

"  I  know  the  chap  as  owns  the  ferrets,"  said  Bob,  in  a  hoarse 
treble  voice,  as  he  shuffled  along,  keeping  his  blue  eyes  fixed  on 
the  river,  like  an  amphibious  animal  who  foresaw  occasion  for 
darting  in.  "  He  lives  up  the  Kennel  Yard  at  Sut  Ogg's,  he 
does.  He's  the  biggest  rot-catcher  anywhere,  he  is.  I'd 
sooner  be  a  rot-catcher  nor  anything,  I  would.  The  moles 
is  nothing  to  the  rots.  But  Lors  !  you  mun  ha'  ferrets.  Dogs 
is  no  good.  Why,  there's  that  dog,  now!"  Bob  continued, 
pointing  with  an  air  of  disgust  towards  Yap,  "  he  's  no  more 
good  wi'  a  rot  nor  nothin'.  I  see  it  myself,  I  did,  at  the 
rot-catchin'  i'  your  feyther's  barn." 

Yap,  feeling  the  withering  influence  of  this  scorn,  tucked 
his  tail  in  and  shrank  close  to  Tom's  leg,  who  felt  a  little  hurt 


42  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

for  him,  but  had  not  the  superhuman  courage  to  seem  behind- 
hand with  Bob  in  contempt  for  a  dog  who  made  so  poor  a 
figure. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  Yap 's  no  good  at  sport.  I  '11  have  regu- 
lar good  dogs  for  rats  and  everything,  when  I  've  done  school." 

"  Hev  ferrets,  Measter  Tom,"  said  Bob,  eagerly,  —  "  them 
white  ferrets  wi'  pink  eyes ;  Lors,  you  might  catch  your  own 
rots,  an'  you  might  put  a  rot  in  a  cage  wi'  a  ferret,  an'  see  'em 
light,  you  might.  That's  what  I'd  do,  I  know,  an'  it  'ml  !" 
better  fun  a'most  nor  seein'  two  chaps  fight,  —  if  it  was  u't 
them  chaps  as  sold  cakes  an'  oranges  at  the  Fair,  as  the  things 
flew  out  o'  their  baskets,  an'  some  o'  the  cakes  was  smashed 

—  But  they  tasted  just  as  good,"  added  Bob,  by  way  of  note 
or  addendum,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  But,  I  say,  Bob,"  said  Tom,  in  a  tone  of  deliberation,  "  fer- 
rets are  nasty  biting  things,  —  they  '11  bite  a  fellow  without 
being  set  on." 

"  Lors  !  why,  that 's  the  beauty  on  'em.  If  a  chap  lays  hold 
o'  your  ferret,  he  won't  be  long  before  he  hollows  out  a  good 
un,  he  won't." 

At  this  moment  a  striking  incident  made  the  boys  pause 
suddenly  in  their  walk.  It  was  the  plunging  of  some  small 
body  in  the  water  from  among  the  neighbouring  bulrushes ;  if 
it  was  not  a  water-rat,  Bob  intimated  that  he  was  ready  to 
undergo  the  most  unpleasant  consequences. 

"  Hoigh  !  Yap,  —  hoigh !  there  he  is,"  said  Tom,  clapping 
his  hands,  as  the  little  black  snout  made  its  arrowy  course  to 
the  opposite  bank.  "  Seize  him,  lad  !  seize  him  !  " 

Yap  agitated  his  ears  and  wrinkled  his  brows,  but  declined 
to  plunge,  trying  whether  barking  would  not  answer  the  pur- 
pose just  as  well. 

"  Ugh !  you  coward !  "  said  Tom,  and  kicked  him  over,  feel- 
ing humiliated  as  a  sportsman  to  possess  so  poor-spirited  an 
animal.  Bob  abstained  from  remark  and  passed  on,  choosing, 
however,  to  walk  in  the  shallow  edge  of  the  overflowing  river 
by  way  of  change. 

"  He  's  none  so  full  now,  the  Floss  is  n't,"  said  Bob,  as  he 
kicked  the  water  up  before  him,  with  an  agreeable  sense  of 
being  insolent  to  it.  "  Why,  last  'ear,  the  meadows  was  all 
one  sheet  o'  water,  they  was." 

"Ay,  but,"  said  Tom,  whose  mind  was  prone  to  see  an  op- 
position between  statements  that  were  really  quite  accordant, 

—  "  but  there  was  a  big  flood  once,  when  the  Round  Pool  was 
made.     /  know  there  was,  'cause  father  says  so.     And  the 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  43 

sheep  and  cows  were  all  drowned,  and  the  boats  went  all  over 
the  fields  ever  such  a  way." 

"  J  don't  care  about  a  flood  comin',''  said  Bob  ;  "  I  don't  mind 
the  water,  no  more  nor  the  land.  I  'd  swim,  /  would." 

"  Ah,  but  if  you  got  nothing  to  eat  for  ever  so  long  ?  "  said 
Tom,  his  imagination  becoming  quite  active  under  the  stimu- 
lus of  that  dread.  "  When  I  'm  a  man,  I  shall  make  a  boat 
with  a  wooden  house  on  the  top  of  it,  like  Noah's  ark,  and 
keep  plenty  to  eat  in  it,  —  rabbits  and  things,  —  all  ready. 
And  then  if  the  flood  came,  you  know,  Bob,  I  should  n't  mind. 
And  I  'd  take  you  in,  if  I  saw  you  swimming,"  he  added,  in 
the  tone  of  a  benevolent  patron. 

"  I  are  n't  frighted,"  said  Bob,  to  whom  hunger  did  not 
appear  so  appalling.  "  But  I  'd  get  in  an'  knock  the  rabbits  on 
th'  head  when  you  wanted  to  eat  'em." 

"  Ah,  and  I  should  have  halfpence,  and  we  'd  play  at  heads- 
and-tails,"  said  Tom,  not  contemplating  the  possibility  that 
this  recreation  might  have  fewer  charms  for  his  mature  age. 
"  I  'd  divide  fair  to  begin  with,  and  then  we  'd  see  who  'd 
win." 

"  I  've  got  a  halfpenny  o'  my  own,"  said  Bob,  proudly,  com- 
ing out  of  the  water  and  tossing  his  halfpenny  in  the  air. 
"  Yeads  or  tails  ?  " 

"  Tails,"  said  Tom,  instantly  fired  with  the  desire  to  win. 

"  It 's  yeads,"  said  Bob,  hastily,  snatching  up  the  halfpenny 
as  it  fell. 

"It  wasn't,"  said  Tom,  loudly  and  peremptorily.  "You 
give  me  the  halfpenny ;  I  've  won  it  fair." 

"  I  sha'n't,"  said  Bob,  holding  it  tight  in  his  pocket. 

"  Then  I  '11  make  you ;  see  if  I  don't,"  said  Tom. 

"  You  can't  make  me  do  nothing,  you  can't,"  said  Bob. 

'  Yes,  I  can." 

'  No,  you  can't." 

'  I  'm  master." 

'  I  don't  care  for  you." 

'  But  I  '11  make  you  care,  you  cheat,"  said  Tom,  collaring 
Bob  and  shaking  him. 

"  You  get  out  wi'  you,"  said  Bob,  giving  Tom  a  kick. 

Tom's  blood  was  thoroughly  up:  he  went  at  Bob  with  a 
lunge  and  threw  him  down,  but  Bob  seized  hold  and  kept  it 
like  a  cat,  and  pulled  Tom  down  after  him.  They  struggled 
fiercely  on  the  ground  for  a  moment  or  two,  till  Tom,  pinning 
Bob  down  by  the  shoulders,  thought  he  had  the  mastery. 

"  You,  say  you  '11  give  me  the  halfpenny  now,"  he  said,  with 


44  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

difficulty,  while  he  exerted  himself  to  keep  the  command  of 
Bob's  arms. 

But  at  this  moment  Yap,  who  had  been  running  on  before, 
returned  barking  to  the  scene  of  action,  and  saw  a  favourable 
opportunity  for  biting  Bob's  bare  leg  not  only  with  impunity 
but  with  honour.  The  pain  from  Yap's  teeth,  instead  of  sur- 
prising Bob  into  a  relaxation  of  his  hold,  gave  it  a  fiercer 
tenacity,  and  with  a  new  exertion  of  his  force,,  he  pushed  Tom 
backward  and  got  uppermost.  But  now  Yap,  who  could  get 
no  sufficient  purchase  before,  set  his  teeth  in  a  new  place,  so 
that  Bob,  harassed  in  this  way,  let  go  his  hold  of  Tom,  and, 
almost  throttling  Yap,  flung  him  into  the  river.  By  this  time 
Tom  was  up  again,  and  before  Bob  had  quite  recovered  his 
balance  after  the  act  of  swinging  Yap,  Tom  fell  upon  him, 
threw  him  down,  and  got  his  knees  firmly  on  Bob's  chest. 

"  You  give  me  the  halfpenny  now,"  said  Tom. 

"  Take  it,"  said  Bob,  sulkily. 

"  No,  I  sha'n't  take  it ;  you  give  it  me." 

Bob  took  the  halfpenny  out  of  his  pocket,  and  threw  it  away 
from  him  on  the  ground. 

Tom  loosed  his  hold,  and  left  Bob  to  rise. 

"  There  the  halfpenny  lies,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  want  your 
halfpenny;  I  wouldn't  have  kept  it.  But  you  waated  to 
cheat;  I  hate  a  cheat.  I  sha'n't  go  along  with  you  any  more," 
he  added,  turning  round  homeward,  not  without  casting  a 
regret  towards  the  rat-catching  and  other  pleasures  which  he 
must  relinquish  along  with  Bob's  society. 

"  You  may  let  it  alone,  then,"  Bob  called  out  after  him.  "  I 
shall  cheat  if  I  like ;  there 's  no  fun  i'  playing  else ;  and  I 
know  where  there  's  a  goldfinch's  nest,  but  I  '11  take  care  you 
don't.  An'  you  're  a  nasty  fightin'  turkey-cook,  you  are  — 

Tom  walked  on  without  looking  round,  and  Yap  followed 
his  example,  the  cold  bath  having  moderated  his  passions. 

"  Go  along  wi'  you,  then,  wi'  your  drowned  dog ;  I  would  n't 
own  such  a  dog  —  /  would  n't,"  said  Bob,  getting  louder,  in  a 
last  effort  to  sustain  his  defiance.  But  Tom  was  not  to  be 
provoked  into  turning  round,  and  Bob's  voice  began  to  falter  a 
little  as  he  said,  — 

"  An'  I  'n  gi'en  you  everything,  an'  showed  you  everything, 
an'  niver  wanted  nothin'  from  you.  An'  there  's  your  horn- 
handed  knife,  then,  as  you  gi'en  me."  Here  Bob  flung  the 
knife  as  far  as  he  could  after  Tom's  retreating  footsteps.  But 
it  produced  no  effect,  except  the  sense  in  Bob's  mind  that  there 
was  a  terrible  void  in  his  lot,  now  that  knife  was  gone. 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  45 

He  stood  still  till  Tom  had  passed  through  the  gate  and  dis- 
appeared behind  the  hedge.  The  knife  would  do  no  good  on 
the  ground  there ;  it  would  n't  vex  Tom ;  and  pride  or  resent- 
ment was  a  feeble  passion  in  Bob's  mind  compared  with  the 
love  of  a  pocket-knife.  His  very  fingers  sent  entreating 
thrills  that  he  would  go  and  clutch  that  familiar  rough  buck's- 
horn  handle,  which  they  had  so  often  grasped  for  mere  affec- 
tion, as  it  lay  idle  in  his  pocket.  And  there  were  two  blades, 
nil  they  had  just  been  sharpened  !  What  is  life  without  a 
pocket-knife  to  him  who  has  once  tasted  a  higher  existence  ? 
Xo ;  to  throw  the  handle  after  the  hatchet  is  a  comprehensible 
act  of  desperation,  but  to  throw  one's  pocket-knife  after  an 
implacable  friend  is  clearly  in  every  sense  a  hyperbole,  or 
throwing  beyond  the  mark.  So  Bob  shuffled  back  to  the  spot 
where  the  beloved  knife  lay  in  the  dirt,  and  felt  quite  a  new 
pleasure  in  clutching  it  again  after  the  temporary  separation, 
in  opening  one  blade  after  the  other,  and  feeling  their  edge 
with  his  well-hardened  thumb.  Poor  Bob !  he  was  not  sensi- 
tive on  the  point  of  honour,  not  a  chivalrous  character. 
That  fine  moral  aroma  would  not  have  been  thought  much  of 
by  the  public  opinion  of  Kennel  Yard,  which  was  the  very 
focus  or  heart  of  Bob's  world,  even  if  it  could  have  made  it- 
self perceptible  there;  yet,  for  all  that,  he  was  not  utterly 
a  sneak  and  a  thief  as  our  friend  Tom  had  hastily  decided. 

But  Tom,  you  perceive,  was  rather  a  Ehadamanthine  per- 
sonage, having  more  than  the  usual  share  of  boy's  justice  in 
him,  —  the  justice  that  desires  to  hurt  culprits  as  much  as 
they  deserve  to  be  hurt,  and  is  troubled  with  no  doubts  con- 
cerning the  exact  amount  of  their  deserts.  Maggie  saw  a 
cloud  on  his  brow  when  he  came  home,  which  checked  her 
joy  at  his  coining  so  much  sooner  than  she  had  expected,  and 
she  dared  hardly  speak  to  him  as  he  stood  silently  throwing 
the  small  gravel-stones  into  the  mill-dam.  It  is  not  pleasant 
to  give  up  a  rat-catching  when  you  have  set  your  mind  on  it. 
But  if  Tom  had  told  his  strongest  feeling  at  that  moment,  he 
would  have  said,  "  I  'd  do  just  the  same  again."  That  was  his 
usual  mode  of  viewing  his  past  actions  ;  whereas  Maggie  was 
always  wishing  she  had  done  something  different. 


4t>  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

ENTEK    THE    AUNTS    AND    UNCLES. 

THE  Dodsons  were  certainly  a  handsome  family,  and  Mrs. 
Glegg  was  not  the  least  handsome  of  the  sisters.  As  she  sat 
in  Mrs.  Tulliver's  arm-chair,  no  impartial  observer  could  have 
denied  that  for  a  woman  of  fifty  she  had  a  very  comely  1'aee 
and  figure,  though  Tom  and  Maggie  considered  their  aunt 
Glegg  as  the  type  of  ugliness.  It  is  true  she  despised  the 
advantages  of  costume,  for  though,  as  she  often  observed,  no 
woman  had  better  clothes,  it  was  not  her  way  to  wear  her 
new  things  out  before  her  old  ones.  Other  women,  if  they 
liked,  might  have  their  best  thread-lace  in  every  wash ;  but 
when  Mrs.  Glegg  died,  it  would  be  found  that  she  had  better 
lace  laid  by  in  the  right-hand  drawer  of  her  wardrobe  in  the 
Spotted  Chamber  than  ever  Mrs.  Wooll  of  St.  Ogg's  had 
bought  in  her  life,  although  Mrs.  Wooll  wore  her  lace  before 
it  was  paid  for.  So  of  her  curled  fronts :  Mrs.  Glegg  had 
doubtless  the  glossiest  and  crispest  brown  curls  in  her  draw- 
ers, as  well  as  curls  in  various  degrees  of  fuzzy  laxness  ;  but 
to  look  out  on  the  week-day  world  from  under  a  crisp  and 
glossy  front  would  be  to  introduce  a  most  dreamlike  and 
unpleasant  confusion  between  the  sacred  and  the  secular. 
Occasionally,  indeed,  Mrs.  Glegg  wore  one  of  her  tin rd-l  test 
fronts  on  a  week-day  visit,  but  not  at  a  sister's  house;  espe- 
cially not  at  Mrs.  Tulliver's,  who,  since  her  marriage,  had 
hurt  her  sisters'  feelings  greatly  by  wearing  her  own  hair, 
though,  as  Mrs.  Glegg  observed  to  Mrs.  Deane,  a  mother  of 
a  family,  like  Bessy,  with  a  husband  always  going  to  law, 
might  have  been  expected  to  know  better.  But  Bessy  was 
always  weak! 

So  if  Mrs.  Glegg's  front  to-day  was  more  fuzzy  and  lax 
than  usual,  she  had  a  design  under  it :  she  intended  the  most 
pointed  and  cutting  allusion  to  Mrs.  Tulliver's  bunches  of 
blond  curls,  separated  from  each  other  by  a  due  wave  of 
smoothness  on  each  side  of  the  parting.  Mrs.  Tulliver  had 
shed  tears  several  times  at  sister  Glegg's  unkindness  on  the 
subject  of  these  unmatronly  curls,  but  the  consciousness  of 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  47 

looking  the  handsomer  for  them  naturally  administered  sup- 
port. Mrs.  Glegg  chose  to  wear  her  bonnet  in  the  house 
to-day,  —  untied  and  tilted  slightly,  of  course,  —  a  frequent 
practice  of  hers  when  she  was  on  a  visit,  and  happened  to  be 
in  a  severe  humour:  she  didn't  know  what  draughts  there 
might  be  in  strange  houses.  For  the  same  reason  she  wore 
a  small  sable  tippet,  which  reached  just  to  her  shoulders,  and 
was  very  far  from  meeting  across  her  well-formed  chest,  while 
her  long  neck  was  protected  by  a  chevaux-de-frise  of  miscellane- 
ous frilling.  One  would  need  to  be  learned  in  the  fashions  of 
those  times  to  know  how  far  in  the  rear  of  them  Mrs.  Glegg's 
slate-coloured  silk  gown  must  have  been ;  but  from  certain 
constellations  of  small  yellow  spots  upon  it,  and  a  mouldy 
odour  about  it  suggestive  of  a  damp  clothes-chest,  it  was  prob- 
able that  it  belonged  to  a  stratum  of  garments  just  old  enough 
to  have  come  recently  into  wear. 

Mrs.  Glegg  held  her  large  gold  watch  in  her  hand  with  the 
many-doubled  chain  round  her  fingers,  and  observed  to  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  who  had  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  the  kitchen, 
that  whatever  it  might  be  by  other  people's  clocks  and 
watches,  it  was  gone  half-past  twelve  by  hers. 

"  I  don't  know  what  ails  sister  Pullet,"  she  continued.  "  It 
used  to  be  the  way  in  our  family  for  one  to  be  as  early  as 
another,  —  I  'm  sure  it  was  so  in  my  poor  father's  time,  —  and 
not  for  one  sister  to  sit  half  an  hour  before  the  others  came. 
But  if  the  ways  o'  the  family  are  altered,  it  sha'n't  be  my  fault ; 
I'll  never  be  the  one  to  come  into  a  house  when  all  the 
rest  are  going  away.  I  wonder  at  sister  Deane,  —  she  used 
to  be  more  like  me.  But  if  you  '11  take  my  advice,  Bessy, 
you  '11  put  the  dinner  forrard  a  bit,  sooner  than  put  it  back, 
because  folks  are  late  as  ought  to  ha'  known  better." 

"  Oh  dear,  there  's  no  fear  but  what  they  '11  be  all  here  in 
time,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  in  her  mild-peevish  tone. 
"  The  dinner  won't  be  ready  till  half-past  one.  But  if  it 's 
long  for  you  to  wait,  let  me  fetch  you  a  cheesecake  and  a 
glass  o'  wine." 

"  Well,  Bessy  ! "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  a  bitter  smile  and 
a  scarcely  perceptible  toss  of  her  head,  "  I  should  ha '  thought 
you  'd  known  your  own  sister  better.  I  never  did  eat  between 
meals,  and  I'm  not  going  to  begin.  Not  but  what  I  hate 
that  nonsense  of  having  your  dinner  at  half-past  one,  when 
you  might  have  it  at  one.  You  was  never  brought  up  in  that 
way,  Bessy." 

"  Why,  Jane,  what  can  I  do  ?     Mr.  Tulliver  does  n't  like  his 


48  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

dinner  before  two  o'clock,  but  I  put  it  half  an  hour  earlier 
because  o'  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  how  it  is  with  husbands,  —  they  're  for 
putting  everything  off;  they'll  put  the  dinner  off  till  after 
tea,  if  they  've  got  wives  as  are  weak  enough  to  give  in  to 
such  work ;  but  it 's  a  pity  for  you,  Bessy,  as  you  have  n't 
got  more  strength  o'  mind.  It  '11  be  well  if  your  children 
don't  suffer  for  it.  And  I  hope  you  've  not  gone  and  got  a 
great  dinner  for  us,  —  going  to  expense  for  your  sisters,  as  'vui 
sooner  eat  a  crust  o'  dry  bread  nor  help  to  ruin  you  with 
extravagance.  I  wonder  you  don't  take  pattern  by  your 
sister  Deane ;  she 's  far  more  sensible.  And  here  you  've 
got  two  children  to  provide  for,  and  your  husband 's  spent 
your  fortin  i'  going  to  law,  and  's  likely  to  spend  his  own  too. 
A  boiled  joint,  as  you  could  make  broth  of  for  the  kitchen," 
Mrs.  Glegg  added,  in  a  tone  of  emphatic  protest,  "  and  a  plain 
pudding,  with  a  spoonful  o'  sugar,  and  no  spice,  'ud  be  far 
more  becoming." 

With  sister  Glegg  in  this  humour,  there  was  a  cheerful  pros- 
pect for  the  day.  Mrs.  Tulliver  never  went  the  length  of 
quarrelling  with  her,  any  more  than  a  water-fowl  that  puts 
out  its  leg  in  a  deprecating  manner  can  be  said  to  quarrel  with 
a  boy  who  throws  stones.  But  this  point  of  the  dinner  was 
a  tender  one,  and  not  at  all  new,  so  that  Mrs.  Tulliver  could 
make  the  same  answer  she  had  often  made  before. 

"  Mr.  Tulliver  says  he  always  will  have  a  good  dinner  for 
his  friends  while  he  can  pay  for  it,"  she  said ;  "  and  he 's 
a  right  to  do  as  he  likes  in  his  own  house,  sister." 

"  Well,  Bessy,  I  can't  leave  your  children  enough  out  o'  my 
savings  to  keep  'em  from  ruin.  And  you  mustn't  look  to 
having  any  o'  Mr.  Glegg's  money,  for  it 's  well  if  I  don't  go 
first,  —  he  comes  of  a  long-lived  family  ;  and  if  he  was  to  die 
and  leave  me  well  for  my  life,  he  'd  tie  all  the  money  up  to  go 
back  to  his  own  kin." 

The  sound  of  wheels  while  Mrs.  Glegg  was  speaking  was 
an  interruption  highly  welcome  to  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  has- 
tened out  to  receive  sister  Pullet ;  it  must  be  sister  Pullet, 
because  the  sound  was  that  of  a  four-wheel. 

Mrs.  Glegg  tossed  her  head  and  looked  rather  sour  about  the 
mouth  at  the  thought  of  the  "  four-wheel."  She  had  a  strong 
opinion  on  that  subject. 

Sister  Pullet  was  in  tears  when  the  one-horse  chaise  stopped 
before  Mrs.  Tulliver's  door,  and  it  was  apparently  requisite 
that  she  should  shed  a  few  more  before  getting  out;  for 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  49 

though  her  husband  and  Mrs.  Tulliver  stood  ready  to  support 
her,  she  sat  still  and  shook  her  head  sadly,  as  she  looked 
through  her  tears  at  the  vague  distance. 

"  Why,  whativer  is  the  matter,  sister  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver. 
She  was  not  an  imaginative  woman,  but  it  occurred  to  her 
that  the  large  toilet-glass  in  sister  Pullet's  best  bedroom  was 
possibly  broken  for  the  second  time. 

There  was  no  reply  but  a  further  shake  of  the  head,  as  Mrs. 
Pullet  slowly  rose  and  got  down  from  the  chaise,  not  without 
casting  a  glance  at  Mr.  Pullet  to  see  that  he  was  guarding  her 
handsome  silk  dress  from  injury.  Mr.  Pullet  was  a  small  man, 
with  a  high  nose,  small  twinkling  eyes,  and  thin  lips,  in  a 
fresh-looking  suit  of  black  and  a  white  cravat,  that  seemed  to 
have  been  tied  very  tight  on  some  higher  principle  than  that 
of  mere  personal  ease.  He  bore  about  the  same  relation  to 
his  tall,  good-looking  wife,  with  her  balloon  sleeves,  abundant 
mantle,  and  large  be-feathered  and  be-ribboned  bonnet,  as  a 
small  fishing  smack  bears  to  a  brig  with  all  its  sails  spread. 

It  is  a  pathetic  sight  and  a  striking  example  of  the  complex- 
ity introduced  into  the  emotions  by  a  high  state  of  civilisation, 
the  sight  of  a  fashionably  dressed  female  in  grief.  From 
the  sorrow  of  a  Hottentot  to  that  of  a  woman  in  large  buck- 
ram sleeves,  with  several  bracelets  on  each  arm,  an  architec- 
tural bonnet,  and  delicate  ribbon  strings,  what  a  long  series 
of  gradations !  In  the  enlightened  child  of  civilisation  the 
abandonment  characteristic  of  grief  is  checked  and  varied  in 
the  subtlest  manner,  so  as  to  present  an  interesting  problem 
to  the  analytic  mind.  If,  with  a  crushed  heart  and  eyes  half 
blinded  by  the  mist  of  tears,  she  were  to  walk  with  a  too  de- 
vious step  through  a  door-place,  she  might  crush  her  buckram 
sleeves  too,  and  the  deep  consciousness  of  this  possibility  pro- 
duces a  composition  of  forces  by  which  she  takes  a  line  that 
just  clears  the  doorpost.  Perceiving  that  the  tears  are  hurry- 
ing fast,  she  unpins  her  strings  and  throws  them  languidly 
backward,  a  touching  gesture,  indicative,  even  in  the  deepes 
gloom,  of  the  hope  in  future  dry  moments  when  cap-strings 
will  once  more  have  a  charm.  As  the  tears  subside  a  little, 
and  with  her  head  leaning  backward  at  the  angle  that  will  not 
injure  her  bonnet,  she  endures  that  terrible  moment  when 
grief,  which  has  made  all  things  else  a  weariness,  has  itself 
become  weary ;  she  looks  down  pensively  at  her  bracelets,  and 
adjusts  their  clasps  with  that  pretty  studied  fortuity  which 
would  be  gratifying  to  her  mind  if  it  were  once  more  in  a 
oalm  and  healthy  state. 


50  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Mrs.  Pullet  brushed  each  doorpost  with  great  nicety, 
about  the  latitude  of  her  shoulders  (at  that  period  a  woman 
was  truly  ridiculous  to  an  instructed  eye  if  she  did  not 
measure  a  yard  and  a  half  across  the  shoulders),  and  having 
done  that  sent  the  muscles  of  her  face  in  quest  of  fresh 
tears  as  she  advanced  into  the  parlour  where  Mrs.  Glegg 
was  seated. 

"  Well,  sister,  you  're  late ;  what 's  the  matter  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Glegg,  rather  sharply,  as  they  shook  hands. 

Mrs.  Pullet  sat  down,  lifting  up  her  mantle  carefully  be- 
hind, before  she  answered,  — 

"  She  's  gone,"  unconsciously  using  an  impressive  figure  of 
rhetoric. 

"  It  is  n't  the  glass  this  time,  then,"  thought  Mrs.  Tulliver. 

"Died  the  day  before  yesterday,"  continued  Mrs.  Pullet; 
"  an'  her  legs  was  as  thick  as  my  body,"  she  added,  with  deep 
sadness,  after  a  pause.  "  They  'd  tapped  her  no  end  o'  times, 
and  the  water  —  thev  say  you  might  ha'  swum  in  it,  if  you  'd 
liked." 

"  Well,  Sophy,  it 's  a  mercy  she 's  gone,  then,  whoever  she 
may  be,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  the  promptitude  and  emphasis 
of  a  mind  naturally  clear  and  decided ;  "  but  I  can't  think  who 
you  're  talking  of,  for  my  part." 

"But  /know,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  sighing  and  shaking  her 
head ;  il  and  there  is  n't  another  such  a  dropsy  in  the  parish. 
/  know  as  it 's  old  Mrs.  Sutton  o'  the  Twentylands." 

"  Well,  she  's  no  kin  o'  yours,  nor  much  acquaintance  as  I  've 
ever  heared  of,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  who  always  cried  just  as 
much  as  was  proper  when  anything  happened  to  her  own 
"kin,"  but  not  on  other  occasions. 

"  She  's  so  much  acquaintance  as  I  've  seen  her  legs  when 
they  was  like  bladders.  And  an  old  lady  as  had  doubled 
her  money  over  and  over  again,  and  kept  it  all  in  her  own 
management  to  the  last,  and  had  her  pocket  with  her  keys  in 
under  her  pillow  constant.  There  is  n't  many  old  j?arish'ners 
like  her,  I  doubt." 

"  And  they  say  she  'd  took  as  much  physic  as  'ud  fill  a 
waggon,"  observed  Mr.  Pullet. 

"Ah!"  sighed  Mrs.  Pullet,  "she'd  another  complaint  ever 
so  many  years  before  she  had  the  dropsy,  and  the  doctors 
could  n't  make  out  what  it  was.  And  she  said  to  me,  when 
I  went  to  see  her  last  Christmas,  she  said,  'Mrs.  Pullet,  if 
ever  you  have  the  dropsy,  you  '11  think  o'  me.'  She  did  say 
so,"  added  Mrs.  Pullet,  beginning  to  cry  bitterly  again;  "those 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  51 

were  her  very  words.  And  she  's  to  be  buried  o'  Saturday,  and 
Pullet 's  bid  to  the  funeral." 

"  Sophy,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  unable  any  longer  to  contain  her 
spirit  of  rational  remonstrance,  —  "Sophy,  I  wonder  at  you, 
fretting  and  injuring  your  health  about  people  as  don't  belong 
to  you.  Your  poor  father  never  did  so,  nor  your  aunt  Frances 
neither,  nor  any  o'  the  family  as  I  ever  heared  of.  You  could  n't 
fret  no  more  than  this,  if  we  'd  heared  as  our  cousin  Abbott  had 
died  sudden  without  making  his  will." 

Mrs.  Pullet  was  silent,  having  to  finish  her  crying,  and  rather 
flattered  than  indignant  at  being  upbraided  for  crying  too 
much.  It  was  not  everybody  who  could  afford  to  cry  so  much 
about  their  neighbours  who  had  left  them  nothing ;  but  Mrs. 
Pullet  had  married  a  gentleman  farmer,  and  had  leisure  and 
money  to  carry  her  crying  and  everything  else  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  respectability. 

"  Mrs.  Sutton  did  n't  die  without  making  her  will,  though," 
said  Mr.  Pullet,  with  a  confused  sense  that  he  was  saying 
something  to  sanction  his  wife's  tears  ;  "  ours  is  a  rich  parish, 
but  they  say'there  's  nobody  else  to  leave  as  many  thousands 
behind  'em  as  Mrs.  Sutton.  And  she's  left  no  leggicies  to 
speak  on,  —  left  it  all  in  a  lump  to  her  husband's  newy." 

"  There  wasn  't  much  good  i'  being  so  rich,  then,"  said  Mrs. 
Glegg,  "if  she  'd  got  none  but  husband's  kin  to  leave  it 
to.  It 's  poor  work  when  that 's  all  you  've  got  to  pinch 
yourself  for.  Not  as  I  'm  one  o'  those  as  'ud  like  to  die  with- 
out leaving  more  money  out  at  interest  than  other  folks  had 
reckoned ;  but  it 's  a  poor  tale  when  it  must  go  out  o'  your 
own  family." 

"  I  'm  sure,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  who  had  recovered  suffi- 
ciently to  take  off  her  veil  and  fold  it  carefully,  "  it 's  a  nice 
sort  o'  man  as  Mrs.  Sutton  has  left  her  money  to,  for  he 's 
troubled  with  the  asthmy,  and  goes  to  bed  every  night  at  eight 
o'clock.  He  told  me  about  it  himself — as  free  as  could  be  — 
one  Sunday  when  he  came  to  our  church.  He  wears  a  hare- 
skin  on  his  chest,  and  has  a  trembling  in  his  talk,  —  quite  a 
gentleman  sort  o'  man.  I  told  him  there  was  n't  many  months 
in  the  year  as  I  was  n't  under  the  doctor's  hands.  And  he 
said,  'Mrs.  Pullet,  I  can  feel  for  you.'  That  was  what  he 
said,  —  the  very  words.  Ah  ! "  sighed  Mrs.  Pullet,  shaking 
her  head  at  the  idea  that  there  were  but  few  who  could  enter 
fully  into  her  experiences  in  pink  mixture  and  white  mixture, 
strong  stuff  in  small  bottles,  and  weak  stuff  in  large  bottles, 
damp  boluses  at  a  shilling,  and  draughts  at  eighteenpence. 


52  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"Sister,  I  may  as  well  go  and  take  my  bonnet  off  now.  Did 
you  see  as  the  cap-box  was  put  out  ?  "  she  added,  turning  to 
her  husband. 

Mr.  Pullet,  by  an  unaccountable  lapse  of  memory,  had  for- 
gotten it,  and  hastened  out,  with  a  stricken  conscience,  to 
remedy  the  omission. 

"  They  '11  bring  it  up-stairs,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  wish- 
ing to  go  at  once,  lest  Mrs.  Glegg  should  begin  to  explain  her 
feelings  about  Sophy's  being  the  first  Dodson  who  ever  ruined 
her  constitution  with  doctor's  stuff. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  fond  of  going  up-stairs  with  her  sister 
Pullet,  and  looking  thoroughly  at  her  cap  before  she  put  it  on 
her  head,  and  discussing  millinery  in  general.  This  was  part 
of  Bessy's  weakness  that  stirred  Mrs.  Glegg's  sisterly  com- 
passion :  Bessy  went  far  too  well  dressed,  considering  ;  and  she 
was  too  proud  to  dress  her  child  in  the  good  clothing  her 
sister  Glegg  gave  her  from  the  primeval  strata  of  her  ward- 
robe ;  it  was  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  buy  anything  to  dress  that 
child,  if  it  wasn't  a  pair  of  shoes.  In  this  particular,  how- 
ever, Mrs.  Glegg  did  her  sister  Bessy  some  injustice,  for  Mrs. 
Tulliver  had  really  made  great  efforts  to  induce  Maggie  to 
wear  a  leghorn  bonnet  and  a  dyed  silk  frock  made  out  of  her 
aunt  Glegg's,  but  the  results  had  been  such  that  Mrs.  Tulliver 
was  obliged  to  bury  them  in  her  maternal  bosom ;  for  Maggie, 
declaring  that  the  frock  smelt  of  nasty  dye,  had  taken  an  op- 
portunity of  basting  it  together  with  the  roast  beef  the  first 
Sunday  she  wore  it,  and  finding  this  scheme  answer,  she  had 
subsequently  pumped  on  the  bonnet  with  its  green  ribbons,  so 
as  to  give  it  a  general  resemblance  to  a  sage  cheese  garnished 
with  withered  lettuces.  I  must  urge  in  excuse  for  Maggie, 
that  Tom  had  laughed  at  her  in  the  bonnet,  and  said  she 
looked  like  an  old  Judy.  Aunt  Pullet,  too,  made  presents  of 
clothes,  but  these  were  always  pretty  enough  to  please  Maggie 
as  well  as  her  mother.  Of  all  her  sisters,  Mrs.  Tulliver  cer- 
tainly preferred  her  sister  Pullet,  not  without  a  return  of  pref- 
erence ;  but  Mrs.  Pullet  was  sorry  Bessy  had  those  naughty, 
awkward  children ;  she  would  do  the  best  she  could  by  them, 
but  it  was  a  pity  they  were  n't  as  good  and  as  pretty  as  sister 
Deane's  child.  Maggie  and  Tom,  on  their  part,  thought  their 
aunt  Pullet  tolerable,  chiefly  because  she  was  not  their  aunt 
Glegg.  Tom  always  declined  to  go  more  than  once  during  his 
holidays  to  see  either  of  them.  Both  his  uncles  tipped  him 
that  once,  of  course ;  but  at  his  aunt  Pullet's  there  were  a 
great  many  toads  to  pelt  in  the  cellar-area,  so  that  he  pre- 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  53 

ferred  the  visit  to  her.  Maggie  shuddered  at  the  toads,  and 
dreamed  of  them  horribly,  but  she  liked  her  uncle  Pullet's 
musical  snuff-box.  Still,  it  was  agreed  by  the  sisters,  in  Mrs. 
Tulliver's  absence,  that  the  Tulliver  blood  did  not  mix  well 
with  the  Dodson  blood;  that,  in  fact,  poor  Bessy's  children 
were  Tullivers,  and  that  Tom,  notwithstanding  he  had  the 
Dodson  complexion,  was  likely  to  be  as  "contrairy"  as  his 
father.  As  for  Maggie,  she  was  the  picture  of  her  aunt  Moss, 
Mr.  Tulliver's  sister,  —  a  large-boned  woman,  who  had  married 
as  poorly  as  could  be ;  had  no  china,  and  had  a  husband  who 
had  much  ado  to  pay  his  rent.  But  when  Mrs.  Pullet  was 
alone  with  Mrs.  Tulliver  up-stairs,  the  remarks  were  naturally 
to  the  disadvantage  of  Mrs.  Glegg,  and  they  agreed,  in  confi- 
dence, that  there  was  no  knowing  what  sort  of  fright  sister 
Jane  would  come  out  next.  But  their  tete-a-tete  was  curtailed 
by  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Deane  with  little  Lucy ;  and  Mrs. 
Tulliver  had  to  look  on  with  a  silent  pang  while  Lucy's  blond 
curls  were  adjusted.  It  was  quite  unaccountable  that  Mrs. 
Deane,  the  thinnest  and  sallowest  of  all  the  Miss  Dodsons, 
should  have  had  this  child,  who  might  have  been  taken  for 
Mrs.  Tulliver's  any  day.  And  Maggie  always  looked  twice  as 
dark  as  usual  when  she  was  by  the  side  of  Lucy. 

She  did  to-day,  when  she  and  Tom  came  in  from  the  garden 
with  their  father  and  their  uncle  Glegg.  Maggie  had  thrown 
her  bonnet  off  very  carelessly,  and  coming  in  with  her  hair 
rough  as  well  as  out  of  curl,  rushed  at  once  to  Lucy,  who  was 
standing  by  her  mother's  knee.  Certainly  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  cousins  was  conspicuous,  and  to  superficial  eyes 
was  very  much  to  the  disadvantage  of  Maggie,  though  a  con- 
noisseur might  ha.ve  seen  "points  "  in  her  which  had  a  higher 
promise  for  maturity  than  Lucy's  natty  completeness.  It  was 
like  the  contrast  between  a  rough,  dark,  overgrown  puppy  and 
a  white  kitten.  Lucy  put  up  the  neatest  little  rosebud  mouth 
to  be  kissed ;  everything  about  her  was  neat,  —  her  little  round 
neck,  with  the  row  of  coral  beads  ;  her  little  straight  nose,  not 
at  all  snubby  ;  her  little  clear  eyebrows,  rather  darker  than 
her  curls,  to  match  her  hazel  eyes,  which  looked  up  with  shy 
pleasure  at  Maggie,  taller  by  the  head,  though  scarcely  a  year 
older.  Maggie  always  looked  at  Lucy  with  delight.  She  was 
fond  of  fancying  a  world  where  the  people  never  got  any 
larger  than  children  of  their  own  age,  and  she  made  the 
queen  of  it  just  like  Lucy,  with  a  little  crown  on  her  head, 
and  a  little  sceptre  in  her  hand  —  only  the  queen  was  Maggie 
herself  in  Lucy's  form. 


54  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"Oh,  Lucy,"  she  burst  out,  after  kissing  her,  "you'll  stay 
with  Tom  and  me,  won't  you  ?  Oh,  kiss  her,  Tom." 

Tom,  too,  had  come  up  to  Lucy,  but  he  was  not  going  to 
kiss  her  —  no ;  he  came  up  to  her  with  Maggie,  because  it 
seemed  easier,  on  the  whole,  than  saying,  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " 
to  all  those  aunts  and  uncles .  He  stood  looking  at  nothing 
in  particular,  with  the  blushing,  awkward  air  and  semi-smile 
which  are  common  to  shy  boys  when  in  company,  —  very  much 
as  if  they  had  come  into  the  world  by  mistake,  and  found  it 
in  a  degree  of  undress  that  was  quite  embarrassing. 

"  Heyday  !  "  said  aunt  Glegg,  with  loud  emphasis.  "  Do 
little  boys  and  gells  come  into  a  room  without  taking  notice 
o'  their  uncles  and  aunts  ?  That  was  n't  the  way  when  /  was 
a  little  gell." 

"  Go  and  speak  to  your  aunts  and  uncles,  my  dears,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  looking  anxious  and  melancholy.  She  wanted 
to  whisper  to  Maggie  a  command  to  go  and  have  her  hair 
brushed. 

"  Well,  and  how  do  you  do  ?  And  I  hope  you  're  good 
children,  are  you  ?  "  said  aunt  Glegg,  in  the  same  loud,  em- 
phatic way,  as  she  took  their  hands,  hurting  them  with  her 
large  rings,  and  kissing  their  cheeks  much  against  their  desire. 
"  Look  up,  Tom,  look  up.  Boys  as  go  to  boarding-schools 
should  hold  their  heads  up.  Look  at  me  now."  Tom  declined 
that  pleasure  apparently,  for  he  tried  to  draw  his  hand  away. 
"  Put  your  hair  behind  your  ears,  Maggie,  and  keep  your  frock 
on  your  shoulder." 

Aunt  Glegg  always  spoke  to  them  in  this  loud,  emphatic 
way,  as  if  she  considered  them  deaf,  or  perhaps  rather  idiotic ; 
it  was  a  means,  she  thought,  of  making  them  feel  that  they 
were  accountable  creatures,  and  might  be  a  salutar}r  check  on 
naughty  tendencies.  Bessy's  children  were  so  spoiled  — 
they'd  need  have  somebody  to  make  them  feel  their  duty. 

"Well,  my  dears,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  in  a  compassionate 
voice,  "you  grow  wonderful  fast.  I  doubt  they'll  outgrow 
their  strength,"  she  added,  looking  over  their  heads,  with  a 
melancholy  expression,  at  their  mother.  "I  think  the  gell 
has  too  much  hair.  I'd  have  it  thinned  and  cut  shorter, 
sister,  if  I  was  you :  it  is  n't  good  for  her  health.  It 's  that 
as  makes  her  skin  so  brown,  I  should  n't  wonder.  Don't  you 
think  so,  sister  Deane  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say,  I  'm  sure,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Deane,  shutting 
her  lips  close  again,  and  looking  at  Maggie  with  a  critical 
eye. 


BOY  AND   GIRL  55 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  the  child 's  healthy  enough ; 
there 's  nothing  ails  her.  There 's  red  wheat  as  well  as 
white,  for  that  matter,  and  some  like  the  dark  grain  best. 
But  it  'ud  be  as  well  if  Bessy  'ud  have  the  child's  hair  cut, 
so  as  it  'ud  lie  smooth." 

A  dreadful  resolve  was  gathering  in  Maggie's  breast,  but 
it  was  arrested  by  the  desire  to  know  from  her  aunt  Deane 
whether  she  would  leave  Lucy  behind.  Aunt  Deane  would 
hardly  ever  let  Lucy  come  to  see  them.  After  various  reasons 
for  refusal,  Mrs.  Deane  appealed  to  Lucy  herself. 

"  You  would  n't  like  to  stay  behind  without  mother,  should 
you,  Lucy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  please,  mother,"  said  Lucy,  timidly,  blushing  very 
pink  all  over  her  little  neck. 

"  Well  done,  Lucy !  Let  her  stay,  Mrs.  Deane,  let  her 
stay,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  a  large  but  alert-looking  man,  with  a 
type  of  physique  to  be  seen  in  all  ranks  of  English  society,  — 
bald  crown,  red  whiskers,  full  forehead,  and  general  solidity 
without  heaviness.  You  may  see  noblemen  like  Mr.  Deane, 
and  you  may  see  grocers  or  day-labourers  like  him ;  but  the 
keenness  of  his  brown  eyes  was  less  common  than  his  contour. 
He  held  a  silver  snuff-box  very  tightly  in  his  hand,  and  now 
and  then  exchanged  a  pinch  with  Mr.  Tulliver,  whose  box  was 
only  silver-mounted,  so  that  it  was  naturally  a  joke  between 
them  that  Mr.  Tulliver  wanted  to  exchange  snuff-boxes  also. 
Mr.  Deane's  box  had  been  given  him  by  the  superior  partners 
in  the  firm  to  which  he  belonged,  at  the  same  time  that  they 
gave  him  a  share  in  the  business,  in  acknowledgment  of  his 
valuable  services  as  manager.  No  man  was  thought  more 
highly  of  in  St.  Ogg's  than  Mr.  Deane  ;  and  some  persons  were 
even  of  opinion  that  Miss  Susan  Dodson,  who  was  once  held 
to  have  made  the  worst  match  of  all  the  Dodson  sisters,  might 
one  day  ride  in  a  better  carriage,  and  live  in  a  better  house, 
even  than  her  sister  Pullet.  There  was  no  knowing  where  a 
man  would  stop,  who  had  got  his  foot  into  a  great  mill-owning, 
ship-owning  business  like  that  of  Guest  &  Co.,  with  a  bank- 
ing concern  attached.  And  Mrs.  Deane,  as  her  intimate 
female  friends  observed,  was  proud  and  "  having "  enough ; 
she  would  n't  let  her  husband  stand  still  in  the  world  for  want 
of  spurring. 

"Maggie,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  beckoning  Maggie  to  her, 
and  whispering  in  her  ear,  as  soon  as  this  point  of  Lucy's 
staying  was  settled,  "go  and  get  your  hair  brushed,  do,  for 


56  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

shame.     I  told  you  not  to  come  in  without  going  to  Martha 
first ;  you  know  I  did." 

"  Tom,  come  out  with  me,"  whispered  Maggie,  pulling  his 
sleeve  as  she  passed  him;  and  Tom  followed  willingly 
enough. 

"  Come  up-stairs  with  me,  Tom,"  she  whispered,  when  they 
were  outside  the  door.  "  There  's  something  I  want  to  do 
before  dinner." 

"  There  's  no  time  to  play  at  anything  before  dinner,"  said 
Torn,  whose  imagination  was  impatient  of  any  intermediate 
prospect. 

"  Oh  yes,  there  is  time  for  this  ;    do  come,  Tom." 

Tom  followed  Maggie  up-stairs  into  her  mother's  room,  and 
saw  her  go  at  once  to  a  drawer,  from  which  she  took  out  a 
large  pair  of  scissors. 

"  What  are  they  for,  Maggie  ?  "  said  Tom,  feeling  his  curi- 
osity awakened. 

Maggie  answered  by  seizing  her  front  locks  and  cutting 
them  straight  across  the  middle  of  her  forehead. 

"  Oh,  my  buttons  !  Maggie,  you  '11  catch  it ! "  exclaimed 
Tom ;  "  you  'd  better  not  cut  any  more  off." 

Snip  !  went  the  great  scissors  again  while  Tom  was  speak- 
ing, and  he  could  n't  help  feeling  it  was  rather  good  fun ; 
Maggie  would  look  so  queer. 

"  Here,  Tom,  cut  it  behind  for  me,"  said  Maggie,  excited 
by  her  own  daring,  and  anxious  to  finish  the  deed. 

"  You  '11  catch  it,  you  know,"  said  Tom,  nodding  his  head  in 
an  admonitory  manner,  and  hesitating  a  little  as  he  took  the 
scissors. 

"  Never  mind,  make  haste ! "  said  Maggie,  giving  a  little 
stamp  with  her  foot.  Her  cheeks  were  quite  flushed. 

The  black  locks  were  so  thick,  nothing  could  be  more 
tempting  to  a  lad  who  had  already  tasted  the  forbidden  pleas- 
ure of  cutting  the  pony's  mane.  I  speak  to  those  who  know 
the  satisfaction  of  making  a  pair  of  shears  meet  through  a 
duly  resisting  mass  of  hair.  One  delicious  grinding  snip,  and 
then  another  and  another,  and  the  hinder-locks  fell  heavily  on 
the  floor,  and  Maggie  stood  cropped  in  a  jagged,  uneven  man- 
ner, but  with  a  sense  of  clearness  and  freedom,  as  if  she  had 
emerged  from  a  wood  into  the  open  plain. 

"  Oh,  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  jumping  round  her,  and  slapping 
his  knees  as  he  laughed,  "  Oh,  my  buttons !  what  a  queer  thing 
you  look !  Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass ;  you  look  like  the 
idiot  we  throw  out  nut-shells  to  at  school." 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  5T 

Maggie  felt  an  unexpected  pang.  She  had  thought  before- 
hand chiefly  of"  her  own  deliverance  from  her  teasing  hair  and 
teasing  remarks  about  it,  and  something  also  of  the  triumph 
she  should  have  over  her  mother  and  her  aunts  by  this  very 
decided  course  of  action ;  she  did  n't  want  her  hair  to  look 
pretty,  —  that  was  out  of  the  question,  —  she  only  wanted  peo- 
ple to  think  her  a  clever  little  girl,  and  not  to  find  fault 
with  her.  But  now,  when  Tom  began  to  laugh  at  her, 
and  say  she  was  like  the  idiot,  the  affair  had  quite  a  new 
aspect.  She  looked  in  the  glass,  and  still  Tom  laughed  and 
clapped  his  hands,  and  Maggie's  flushed  cheeks  began  to  pale, 
and  her  lips  to  tremble  a  little. 

"  Oh,  Maggie,  you  '11  have  to  go  down  to  dinner  directly,"  said 
Tom.  "  Oh,  my  !  " 

"Don't  laugh  at  me,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  passionate 
tone,  with  an  outburst  of  angry  tears,  stamping,  and  giving 
him  a  push. 

"  Now,  then,  spitfire  !  "  said  Tom.  "  What  did  you  cut  it  off 
for,  then  ?  I  shall  go  down  :  I  can  smell  the  dinner  going  in." 

He  hurried  down-stairs  and  left  poor  Maggie  to  that  bitter 
sense  of  the  irrevocable  which  was  almost  an  every-day  expe- 
rience of  her  small  soul.  She  could  see  clearly  enough,  now 
the  thing  was  done,  that  it  was  very  foolish,  and  that  she 
should  have  to  hear  and  think  more  about  her  hair  than  ever ; 
for  Maggie  rushed  to  her  deeds  with  passionate  impulse,  and 
then  saw  not  only  their  consequences,  but  what  would  have 
happened  if  they  had  not  been  done,  with  all  the  detail  and 
exaggerated  circumstance  of  an  active  imagination.  Tom 
never  did  the  same  sort  of  foolish  things  as  Maggie,  having 
a  wonderful  instinctive  discernment  of  what  would  turn  to  his 
advantage  or  disadvantage  ;  and  so  it  happened,  that  though  he 
was  much  more  wilful  and  inflexible  than  Maggie,  his  mother 
hardly  ever  called  him  naughty.  But  if  Tom  did  make  a  mis- 
take of  that  sort,  he  espoused  it,  and  stood  by  it :  he  "  did  n't 
mind."  If  he  broke  the  lash  of  his  father's  gig-whip  by  lash- 
ing the  gate,  he  could  n't  help  it,  —  the  whip  should  n't  have 
got  caught  in  the  hinge.  If  Tom  Tulliver  whipped  a  gate,  he 
was  convinced,  not  that  the  whipping  of  gates  by  all  boys  was 
a  justifiable  act,  but  that  he,  Tom  Tulliver,  was  justifiable  in 
whipping  that  particular  gate,  and  he  was  n't  going  to  be 
sorry.  But  Maggie,  as  she  stood  crying  before  the  glass,  felt 
it  impossible  that  she  should  go  down  to  dinner  and  endure 
the  severe  eyes  and  severe  words  of  her  aunts,  while  Tom 
and  Lucy,  and  Martha,  who  waited  at  table,  and  perhaps  her 


58  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

father  and  her  uncles,  would  laugh  at  her ;  for  if  Tom  had 
laughed  at  her,  of  course  every  one  else  would;  and  if  she 
had  only  let  her  hair  alone,  she  could  have  sat  with  Tom  and 
Lucy,  and  had  the  apricot  pudding  and  the  custard !  What 
could  she  do  but  sob  ?  She  sat  as  helpless  and  despairing 
among  her  black  locks  as  Ajax  among  the  slaughtered  sheep. 
Very  trivial,  perhaps,  this  anguish  seems  to  weather-worn 
mortals  who  have  to  think  of  Christmas  bills,  dead  loves,  and 
broken  friendships ;  but  it  was  not  less  bitter  to  Maggie  — 
perhaps  it  was  even  more  bitter  —  than  what  we  are  fond  of 
calling  antithetically  the  real  troubles  of  mature  life.  "  Ah, 
my  child,  you  will  have  real  troubles  to  fret  about  by-and-by," 
is  the  consolation  we  have  almost  all  of  us  had  administered 
to  us  in  our  childhood,  and  have  repeated  to  other  children 
since  we  have  been  grown  up.  We  have  all  of  us  sobbed  so 
piteously,  standing  with  tiny  bare  legs  above  our  little  socks, 
when  we  lost  sight  of  our  mother  or  nurse  in  some  strange 
place ;  but  we  can  no  longer  recall  the  poignancy  of  that 
moment  and  weep  over  it,  as  we  do  over  the  remembered  suf- 
ferings of  five  or  ten  years  ago.  Every  one  of  those  keen 
moments  has  left  its  trace,  and  lives  in  us  still,  but  such  traces 
have  blent  themselves  irrecoverably  with  the  firmer  texture  of 
our  youth  and  manhood ;  and  so  it  comes  that  we  can  look  on 
at  the  troubles  of  our  children  with  a  smiling  disbelief  in  the 
reality  of  their  pain.  Is  there  any  one  who  can  recover  the 
experience  of  his  childhood,  not  merely  with  a  memory  of 
what  he  did  and  what  happened  to  him,  of  what  he  liked  and 
disliked  when  he  was  in  frock  and  trousers,  but  with  an  inti- 
mate penetration,  a  revived  consciousness  of  what  he  felt  then, 
when  it  was  so  long  from  one  Midsummer  to  another ;  what 
he  felt  when  his  schoolfellows  shut  him  out  of  their  game  be- 
cause he  would  pitch  the  ball  wrong  out  of  mere  wilfulness  ; 
or  on  a  rainy  day  in  the  holidays,  when  he  did  n't  know  how 
to  amuse  himself,  and  fell  from  idleness  into  mischief,  from 
mischief  into  defiance,  and  from  defiance  into  sulkiness;  or 
when  his  mother  absolutely  refused  to  let  him  have  a  tailed 
coat  that  "half,"  although  every  other  boy  of  his  age  had 
gone  into  tails  already  ?  Surely  if  we  could  recall  that  early 
bitterness,  and  the  dim  guesses,  the  strangely  perspectiveless 
conception  of  life  that  gave  the  bitterness  its  intensity,  we 
should  not  pooh-pooh  the  griefs  of  our  children. 

"  Miss  Maggie,  you  're  to  come  down  this  minute,"  said 
Kezia,  entering  the  room  hurriedly.  "  Lawks  !  what  have  you 
been  a-doing  ?  I  niver  see  such  a  fright ! " 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  59 

"  Don't,  Kezia,  "  said  Maggie,  angrily.     "  Go  away ! " 

"But  I  tell  you  you're  to  come  down,  Miss,  this  minute; 
your  mother  says  so,"  said  Kezia,  going  up  to  Maggie  and 
taking  her  by  the  hand  to  raise  her  from  the  floor. 

"  Get  away,  Kezia ;  I  don't  want  any  dinner,"  said  Maggie, 
resisting  Kezia's  arm.  "  I  sha'ii't  come." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  can't  stay.  I  've  got  to  wait  at  dinner,"  said 
Kezia,  going  out  again. 

"  Maggie,  you  little  silly,"  said  Tom,  peeping  into  the  room 
ten  minutes  after,  "  why  don't  you  come  and  have  your  dinner  ? 
There 's  lots  o'  goodies,  and  mother  says  you  're  to  come.  What 
are  you  crying  for,  you  little  spooney  ?  " 

Oh,  it  was  dreadful !  Tom  was  so  hard  and  unconcerned ; 
if  he  had  been  crying  on  the  floor,  Maggie  would  have  cried 
too.  And  there  was  the  dinner,  so  nice ;  and  she  was  so 
hungry.  It  was  very  bitter. 

But  Tom  was  not  altogether  hard.  He  was  not  inclined  to 
cry,  and  did  not  feel  that  Maggie's  grief  spoiled  his  prospect 
of  the  sweets  ;  but  he  went  and  put  his  head  near  her,  and 
said  in  a  lower,  comforting  tone, — 

"  Won't  you  come,  then,  Magsie  ?  Shall  I  bring  you  a  bit 
o'  pudding  when  I  've  had  mine,  and  a  custard  and  things  ?  " 

"  Ye-e-es,"  said  Maggie,  beginning  to  feel  life  a  little  more 
tolerable. 

"Very  well,"  said  Tom,  going  away.  But  he  turned  again 
at  the  door  and  said,  "But  you'd  better  come,  you  know. 
There 's  the  dessert,  —  nuts,  you  know,  and  cowslip  wine." 

Maggie's  tears  had  ceased,  and  she  looked  reflective  as  Tom 
left  her.  His  good-nature  had  taken  off  the  keenest  edge  of 
her  suffering,  and  nuts  with  cowslip  wine  began  to  assert  their 
legitimate  infliience. 

Slowly  she  rose  from  amongst  her  scattered  locks,  and 
slowly  she  made  her  way  down-stairs.  Then  she  stood  lean- 
ing with  one  shoulder  against  the  frame  of  the  dining-parlour 
door,  peeping  in  when  it  was  ajar.  She  saw  Tom  and  Lucy 
with  an  empty  chair  between  them,  and  there  were  the 
custards  on  a  side-table ;  it  was  too  much.  She  slipped 
in  and  went  towards  the  empty  chair.  But  she  had  no 
sooner  sat  down  than  she  repented  and  wished  herself  back 
again. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  gave  a  little  scream  as  she  saw  her,  and  felt 
such  a  "turn"  that  she  dropped  the  large  gravy-spoon  into  the 
dish,  with  the  most  serious  results  to  the  table-cloth.  For 
Kezia  had  not  betrayed  the  reason  of  Maggie's  refusal  to 


60  77/7?   MILL    ON   THE   FLOSS. 

come  down,  not  liking  to  give  her  mistress  a  shock  in  the 
moment  of  carving,  and  Mrs.  Tulliver  thought  there  was 
nothing  worse  in  question  than  a  fit  of  perverseness,  which 
was  inflicting  its  own  punishment  by  depriving  Maggie  of  half 
her  dinner. 

Mrs.  Tulliver's  scream  made  all  eyes  turn  towards  the  same 
point  as  her  own,  and  Maggie's  cheeks  and  ears  began  to  burn, 
vliile  uncle  Glegg,  a  kind-looking,  white-haired  old  gentleman, 
jaid,  — 

"  Heyday  !  what  little  gell  's  this  ?  Why,  I  don't  know  her. 
Is  it  some  little  gell  you  've  picked  up  in  the  road,  Kezia  ?  " 

"Why,  she's  gone  and  cut  her  hair  herself,"  said  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver in  an  undertone  to  Mr.  Deane,  laughing  with  much  enjoy- 
ment. Did  you  ever  know  such  a  little  hussy  as  it  is  ?  " 

"  Why,  little  miss,  you  've  made  yourself  look  very  funny," 
said  uncle  Pullet,  and  perhaps  he  never  in  his  life  made  an 
observation  which  was  felt  to  be  so  lacerating. 

"  Fie,  for  shame  !  "  said  aunt  Glegg,  in  her  loudest,  severest 
tone  of  reproof.  "  Little  gells  as  cut  their  own  hair  should  be 
whipped  and  fed  on  bread  and  water,  —  not  come  and  sit  down 
with  their  aunts  and  uncles." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  uncle  Glegg,  meaning  to  give  a  playful  turn 
to  this  denunciation,  "she  must  be  sent  to  jail,  I  think,  and 
they  '11  cut  the  rest  of  her  hair  off  there,  and  make  it  all 
even." 

"  She  's  more  like  a  gypsy  nor  ever,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  in  a 
pitying  tone ;  "  it 's  very  bad  luck,  sister,  as  the  gell  should 
be  so  brown ;  the  boy  's  fair  enough.  I  doubt  it  '11  stand  in 
her  way  i'  life  to  be  so  brown." 

"  She 's  a  naughty  child,  as  '11  break  her  mother's  heart," 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Maggie  seemed  to  be  listening  to  a  chorus  of  reproach  and 
derision.  Her  first  flush  came  from  anger,  which  gave  her  a 
transient  power  of  defiance,  and  Tom  thought  she  was  brav- 
ing it  out,  supported  by  the  recent  appearance  of  the  pudding 
and  custard.  Under  this  impression,  he  whispered,  "  Oh  my ! 
Maggie,  I  told  you  you  'd  catch  it."  He  meant  to  be  friendly, 
but  Maggie  felt  convinced  that  Tom  was  rejoicing  in  her 
ignominy.  Her  feeble  power  of  defiance  left  her  in  an  instant, 
her  heart  swelled,  and  getting  up  from  her  chair,  she  ran  to 
her  father,  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  burst  out  into 
loud  sobbing. 

"  Come,  come,  my  wench,"  said  her  father,  soothingly,  put- 
ting his  arm  round  her,  "  never  mind  ;  you  was  i'  the  right  to 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  61 

cut  it  off  if  it  plagued  you ;  give  over  crying ;  father  '11  take 
your  part." 

Delicious  words  ot  tenderness !  Maggie  never  forgot  any 
of  these  moments  when  her  father  "  took  her  part ; "  she 
kept  them  in  her  heart,  and  thought  of  them  long  years  after, 
when  every  one  else  said  that  her  father  had  done  very  ill  by 
his  children. 

"  How  your  husband  does  spoil  that  child,  Bessy ! "  said 
Mrs.  Glegg,  in  a  loud  "  aside,"  to  Mrs.  Tulliver.  "  It  '11  be 
the  ruin  of  her,  if  you  don't  take  care.  My  father  never 
brought  his  children  up  so,  else  we  should  ha'  been  a  different 
sort  o'  family  to  what  we  are." 

Mrs.  Tulliver's  domestic  sorrows  seemed  at  this  moment  to 
have  reached  the  point  at  which  insensibility  begins.  She 
took  no  notice  of  her  sister's  remark,  but  threw  back  her  cap- 
strings  and  dispensed  the  pudding,  in  mute  resignation. 

With  the  dessert  there  came  entire  deliverance  for  Maggie, 
for  the  children  were  told  they  might  have  their  nuts  and 
wine  in  the  summer-house,  since  the  day  was  so  mild ;  and 
they  scampered  out  among  the  budding  bushes  of  the  garden 
with  the  alacrity  of  small  animals  getting  from  under  a 
burning-glass. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  had  her  special  reason  for  this  permission : 
now  the  dinner  was  despatched,  and  every  one 's  mind  disen- 
gaged, it  was  the  right  moment  to  communicate  Mr.  Tulliver's 
intention  concerning  Tom,  and  it  would  be  as  well  for  Tom 
himself  to  be  absent.  The  children  were  used  to  hear  them- 
selves talked  of  as  freely  as  if  they  were  birds,  and  could 
understand  nothing,  however  they  might  stretch  their  necks 
and  listen ;  but  on  this  occasion  Mrs.  Tulliver  manifested  an 
unusual  discretion,  because  she  had  recently  had  evidence  that 
the  going  to  school  to  a  clergyman  was  a  sore  point  with  Tom, 
who  looked  at  it  as  very  much  on  a  par  with  going  to  school 
to  a  constable.  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  a  sighing  sense  that  her 
husband  would  do  as  he  liked,  whatever  sister  Glegg  said,  or 
sister  Pullet  either ;  but  at  least  they  would  not  be  able  to  say, 
if  the  thing  turned  out  ill,  that  Bessy  had  fallen  in  with  her 
husband's  folly  without  letting  her  own  friends  know  a  word 
about  it. 

"Mr.  Tulliver,"  she  said,  interrupting  her  husband  in  his 
talk  with  Mr.  Deane,  "it's  time  now  to  tell  the  children's 
aunts  and  uncles  what  you  're  thinking  of  doing  with  Tom. 
is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  rather  sharply,  "  I  've  no 


62  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

objections  to  tell  anybody  what  I  mean  to  do  with  him.  I  've 
settled,"  he  added,  looking  towards  Mr.  Glegg  and  Mr.  De;mr, 
—  "I  've  settled  to  send  him  to  a  Mr.  Stelling,  a  parson,  down 
at  King's  Lorton,  there,  —  an  uncommon  clever  fellow,  1  un- 
derstand, as  '11  put  him  up  to  most  things." 

There  was  a  rustling  demonstration  of  surprise  in  the 
company,  such  as  you  may  have  observed  in  a  country  con- 
gregation, when  they  hear  an  allusion  to  their  week-day  affairs 
1'roin  the  pulpit.  It  was  equally  astonishing  to  the  aunts  and 
uncles  to  find  a  parson  introduced  into  Mr.  Tulliver's  family 
arrangements.  As  for  uncle  Pullet,  he  could  hardly  have 
been  more  thoroughly  obfuscated  if  Mr.  Tullivcr  had  said  that 
he  was  going  to  send  Tom  to  the  Lord  Chancellor  ;  for  uncle 
Pullet  belonged  to  that  extinct  class  of  British  yeomen  who, 
dressed  in  good  broadcloth,  paid  high  rates  and  taxes,  went  to 
church,  and  ate  a  particularly  good  dinner  on  Sunday,  without 
dreaming  that  the  British  constitution  in  Church  and  State 
had  a  traceable  origin  any  more  than  the  solar  system  and  the 
fixed  stars.  It  is  melancholy,  but  true,  that  Mr.  Pullet  had 
the  most  confused  idea  of  a  bishop  as  a  sort  of  a  baronet,  who 
might  or  might  not  be  a  clergyman ;  and  as  the  rector  of  his 
own  parish  was  a  man  of  high  family  and  fortune,  the  idea 
that  a  clergyman  could  be  a  schoolmaster  was  too  remote 
from  Mr.  Pullet's  experience  to  be  readily  conceivable.  I 
know  it  is  difficult  for  people  in  these  instructed  times  to 
believe  in  uncle  Pullet's  ignorance ;  but  let  them  reflect  on 
the  remarkable  results  of  a  great  natural  faculty  under  favour- 
ing circumstances.  And  uncle  Pullet  had  a  great  natural 
faculty  for  ignorance.  He  was  the  first  to  give  utterance  to 
his  astonishment. 

"  Why,  what  can  you  be  going  to  send  him  to  a  parson  for  ?  " 
he  said,  with  an  amazed  twinkling  in  his  eyes,  looking  at  Mr. 
Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane,  to  see  if  they  showed  any  signs  of 
comprehension. 

"  Why,  because  the  parsons  are  the  best  schoolmasters,  by 
what  I  can  make  out,"  said  poor  Mr.  Tulliver,  who,  in  the 
maze  of  this  puzzling  world,  laid  hold  of  any  clue  with  great 
readiness  and  tenacity.  "  Jacobs  at  th'  academy 's  no  parson, 
and  he 's  done  very  bad  by  the  boy ;  and  I  made  up  my  mind, 
if  I  sent  him  to  school  again,  it  should  be  to  somebody  differ- 
ent to  Jacobs.  And  this  Mr.  Stelling,  by  what  I  can  make 
out,  is  the  sort  o'  man  I  want.  And  I  mean  my  boy  to  go  to 
him  at  Midsummer,"  he  concluded,  in  a  tone  of  decision, 
tapping  his  snuff-box  and  taking  a  pinch. 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  63 

"  You  '11  have  to  pay  a  swinging  half-yearly  bill,  then,  eh, 
Tulliver  ?  The  clergymen  have  highish  notions,  in  general," 
said  Mr.  Deane,  taking  snuff  vigorously,  as  he  always  did 
when  wishing  to  maintain  a  neutral  position. 

"  What !  do  you  think  the  parson  '11  teach  him  to  know  a 
good  sample  o'  wheat  when  he  sees  it,  neighbour  Tulliver  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Glegg  who  was  fond  of  his  jest,  and  having  retired 
from  business,  felt  that  it  was  not  only  allowable  but  becom- 
ing in  him  to  take  a  playful  view  of  things. 

"  Why,  you  see,  I  've  got  a  plan  i'  my  head  about  Tom," 
said  Mr.  Tulliver,  pausing  after  that  statement  and  lifting  up 
his  glass. 

"  Well,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  speak,  and  it 's  seldom  as  I 
am,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  a  tone  of  bitter  meaning,  "I 
should  like  to  know  what  good  is  to  come  to  the  boy,  by 
bringin'  him  up  above  his  fortin." 

"  Why,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  not  looking  at  Mrs.  Glegg,  but  at 
the  male  part  of  his  audience,  "  you  see,  I  've  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  bring  Tom  up  to  my  own  business.  I  've  had  my 
thoughts  about  it  all  along,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  by  what  I 
saw  with  Garnett  and  his  son.  I  mean  to  put  him  to  some 
business  as  he  can  go  into  without  capital,  and  I  want  to  give 
him  an  eddication  as  he  '11  be  even  wi'  the  lawyers  and  folks, 
and  put  me  up  to  a  notion  now  an'  then." 

Mrs.  Glegg  emitted  a  long  sort  of  guttural  sound  with  closed 
lips,  that  smiled  in  mingled  pity  and  scorn. 

"  It  'ud  be  a  fine  deal  better  for  some  people,"  she  said, 
after  that  introductory  note,  "  if  they  'd  let  the  lawyers 
alone." 

"  Is  he  at  the  head  of  a  grammar  school,  then,  this  clergy- 
man, such  as  that  at  Market  Bewley  ?  "  said  Mr.  Deane. 

"No,  nothing  o'  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "He  won't 
take  more  than  two  or  three  pupils,  and  so  he'll  have  the 
more  time  to  attend  to  'em,  you  know." 

"Ah,  and  get  his  eddication  done  the  sooner;  they  can't 
learn  much  at  a  time  when  there 's  so  many  of  'em,"  said 
uncle  Pullet,  feeling  that  he  was  getting  quite  an  insight  into 
this  difficult  matter. 

"  But  he  '11  want  the  more  pay,  I  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Glegg. 

"  Ay,  ay,  a  cool  hundred  a-year,  that 's  all,"  said  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver, with  some  pride  at  his  own  spirited  course.  "  But  then, 
you  know,  it 's  an  investment ;  Tom 's  eddication  'ull  be  so  much 
capital  to  him." 

"  Ay,  there  's  something  in  that,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.     "  Well, 


64  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

well,  neighbour  Tulliver,  you  may  be  right,  you  may  be 
right : 

'  When  land  is  gone  and  money  'a  spent, 
Then  learning  is  most  excellent.' 

I  remember  seeing  those  two  lines  wrote  on  a  window  at 
Buxton.  But  us  that  have  got  no  learning  had  better  keep 
our  money,  eh  neighbour  Pullet  ? "  Mr.  Glegg  rubbed  his 
knees,  and  looked  very  pleasant. 

"  Mr.  Glegg,  I  wonder  at  you,"  said  his  wife.  "  It 's  very 
unbecoming  in  a  man  o'  your  age  and  belongings." 

"  What 's  unbecoming,  Mrs.  G.  ?  "  said  Mr.  Glegg,  winking 
pleasantly  at  the  company.  "My  new  blue  coat  as  I've 
got  on  ?  " 

"  I  pity  your  weakness,  Mr.  Glegg.  I  say  it 's  unbecoming 
to  be  making  a  joke  when  you  see  your  own  kin  going  head- 
longs  to  ruin." 

"  If  you  mean  me  by  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  considerably 
nettled,  "  you  need  n't  trouble  yourself  to  fret  about  me.  I  can 
manage  my  own  affairs  without  troubling  other  folks." 

"  Bless  me ! "  said  Mr.  Deane,  judiciously  introducing  a  new 
idea,  "  why,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  somebody  said  Wakem 
was  going  to  send  his  son  —  the  deformed  lad  —  to  a  clergy- 
man, did  n't  they,  Susan  ?  "  (appealing  to  his  wife). 

"  I  can  give  no  account  of  it,  I  'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Deane, 
closing  her  lips  very  tightly  again.  Mrs.  Deane  was  not  a 
woman  to  take  part  in  a  scene  where  missiles  were  flying. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  speaking  all  the  more  cheerfully, 
that  Mrs.  Glegg  might  see  he  did  n't  mind  her,  "  if  Wakem 
thinks  o'  sending  his  son  to  a  clergyman,  depend  on  it  I  shall 
make  no  mistake  i'  sending  Tom  to  one.  Wakem 's  as  big  a 
scoundrel  as  Old  Harry  ever  made,  but  he  knows  the  length 
of  every  man's  foot  he 's  got  to  deal  with.  Ay,  ay,  tell  me  who 's 
Wakein's  butcher,  and  I  '11  tell  you  where  to  get  your  meat." 

"  But  lawyer  Wakem's  son  's  got  a  hump-back,"  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  who  felt  as  if  the  whole  business  had  a  funereal 
i-t ;  "it's  more  nat'ral  to  send  him  to  a  clergyman." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  interpreting  Mrs.  Pullet's  observation 
with  erroneous  plausibility,  "you  must  consider  that,  neigh- 
bour Tulliver ;  Wakem's  son  is  n't  likely  to  follow  any  busi- 
ness. Wakem  'ull  make  a  gentleman  of  him,  poor  fellow." 

"  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  in  a  tone  which  implied  that  her 
indignation  would  fizz  and  ooze  a  little,  though  she  was  deter- 
mined to  keep  it  corked  up,  "  you  'd  far  better  hold  your  tongue. 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  65 

Mr.  Tulliver  does  n't  want  to  know  your  opinion  nor  mine  nei- 
ther. There  's  folks  in  the  world  as  know  better  than  every- 
body else. " 

"  Why,  I  should  think  that 's  you,  if  we  're  to  trust  your 
own  tale,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  beginning  to  boil  up  again. 

"  Oh,  /  say  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  sarcastically.  "  My 
advice  has  never  been  asked,  and  I  don't  give  it." 

"  It  '11  be  the  first  time,  then,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  It 's  the 
only  thing  you  're  over-ready  at  giving." 

"  I  've  been  over-ready  at  lending,  then,  if  I  have  n't  been 
over-ready  at  giving,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  There  's  folks  I  've 
lent  money  to,  as  perhaps  I  shall  repent  o'  lending  money  to 
kin." 

"Come,  come,  come,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  soothingly.  But  Mr. 
Tulliver  was  not  to  be  hindered  of  his  retort. 

"  You  've  got  a  bond  for  it,  I  reckon,"  he  said  ;  "  and  you  've 
had  your  five  per  cent,  kin  or  no  kin." 

"  Sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  pleadingly,  "  drink  your  wine, 
and  let  me  give  you  some  almonds  and  raisins." 

"  Bessy,  I  'm  sorry  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  very  much 
with  the  feeling  of  a  cur  that  seizes  the  opportunity  of  divert- 
ing his  bark  towards  the  man  who  carries  no  stick.  "  It 's  poor 
work  talking  o'  almonds  and  raisins." 

"  Lors,  sister  Glegg,  don't  be  so  quarrelsome,"  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  beginning  to  cry  a  little.  "  You  may  be  struck  with  a 
fit,  getting  so  red  in  the  face  after  dinner,  and  we  are  but  just 
out  o'  mourning,  all  of  us,  —  and  all  wi'  gowns  craped  alike 
and  just  put  by ;  it 's  very  bad  among  sisters." 

"I  should  think  it  is  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "Things  are 
come  to  a  fine  pass  when  one  sister  invites  the  other  to  her 
house  o'  purpose  to  quarrel  with  her  and  abuse  her." 

"  Softly,  softly,  Jane ;  be  reasonable,  be  reasonable,"  said 
Mr.  Glegg. 

But  while  he  was  speaking,  Mr.  Tulliver,  who  had  by  no 
means  said  enough  to  satisfy  his  anger,  burst  out  again. 

"  Who  wants  to  quarrel  with  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  It 's  you  as 
can't  let  people  alone,  but  must  be  gnawing  at  'ern  for  ever. 
/  should  never  want  to  quarrel  with  any  woman  if  she  kept 
her  place." 

"  My  place,  indeed  ! "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  getting  rather  more 
shrill.  "  There  's  your  betters,  Mr.  Tulliver,  as  are  dead  and 
in  their  grave,  treated  me  with  a  different  sort  o'  respect  to 
what  you  do  ;  though  I  've  got  a  husband  as  '11  sit  by  and  see 
me  abused  by  them  as  'ud  never  ha'  had  the  chance  if  there 

5 


66  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

had  n't  been  them  in  our  family  as  married  worse  than  they 
might  ha'  done." 

"  If  you  talk  o'  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  my  family 's  as 
good  as  yours,  and  better,  for  it  has  n't  got  a  damned  ill-tem- 
pered woman  in  it ! " 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  rising  from  her  chair,  "  I  don't 
know  whether  you  think  it's  a  fine  thing  to  sit  by  and  IK  ;u 
me  swore  at,  Mr.  Glegg ;  but  I  'm  not  going  to  stay  a  minute 
longer  in  this  house.  You  can  stay  behind,  and  come  home 
with  the  gig,  and  I  '11  walk  home." 

"  Dear  heart,  dear  heart !  "  said  Mr.  Glegg  in  a  melancholy 
tone,  as  he  followed  his  wife  out  of  the  room. 

"  Mr.  Tulliver,  how  could  you  talk  so  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
with  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Let  her  go,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  too  hot  to  be  damped  by 
any  amount  of  tears.  "  Let  her  go,  and  the  sooner  the  better ; 
she  won't  be  trying  to  domineer  over  me  again  in  a  hurry." 

"  Sister  Pullet,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  helplessly,  "  do  you 
think  it  'ud  be  any  use  for  you  to  go  after  her  and  try  to  pac- 
ify her  ?  " 

"  Better  not,  better  not,"  said  Mr.  Deane.  "  You  '11  make  it 
up  another  day." 

"  Then,  sisters,  shall  we  go  and  look  at  the  children  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  drying  her  eyes. 

No  proposition  could  have  been  more  seasonable.  Mr.  Tul- 
liver felt  very  much  as  if  the  air  had  been  cleared  of  obtrusive 
flies  now  the  women  were  out  of  the  room.  There  were  few 
things  he  liked  better  than  a  chat  with  Mr.  Deane,  whose 
close  application  to  business  allowed  the  pleasure  very  rarely. 
Mr.  Deane,  he  considered,  was  the  "knowingest"  man  of  his 
acquaintance,  and  he  had  besides  a  ready  causticity  of  tongue 
that  made  an  agreeable  supplement  to  Mr.  Tulliver's  own  ten- 
dency that  way,  which  had  remained  in  rather  an  inarticulate 
condition.  And  now  the  women  were  gone,  they  could  cany 
on  their  serious  talk  without  frivolous  interruption.  They 
could  exchange  their  views  concerning  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton, whose  conduct  in  the  Catholic  Question  had  thrown  such 
an  entirely  new  light  on  his  character ;  and  speak  slightingly 
of  his  conduct  at  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  which  he  would 
never  have  won  if  there  had  n't  been  a  great  many  Englishmen 
at  his  back,  not  to  speak  of  Blucher  and  the  Prussians,  who, 
as  Mr.  Tulliver  had  heard  from  a  person  of  particular  knowl- 
edge in  that  matter,  had  come  up  in  the  very  nick  of  time ; 
though  here  there  was  a  slight  dissidence,  Mr.  Deane  remark- 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  67 

ing  that  he  was  not  disposed  to  give  much  credit  to  the  Prus- 
sians, —  the  build  of  their  vessels,  together  with  the  unsatis- 
factory character  of  transactions  in  Dautzic  beer,  inclining 
him  to  form  rather  a  low  view  of  Prussian  pluck  generally. 
Bather  beaten  on  this  ground,  Mr.  Tulliver  proceeded  to 
express  his  fears  that  the  country  could  never  again  be  what 
it  used  to  be ;  but  Mr.  Deane,  attached  to  a  firm  of  which  the 
returns  were  on  the  increase,  naturally  took  a  more  lively  view 
jf  the  present,  and  had  some  details  to  give  concerning  the 
'  of  the  imports,  especially  in  hides  and  spelter,  which 
soothed  Mr.  Tulliver's  imagination  by  throwing  into  more 
distant  perspective  the  period  when  the  country  would  become 
utterly  the  prey  of  Papists  and  Kadicals,  and  there  would  be 
no  more  chance  for  honest  men. 

Uncle  Pullet  sat  by  and  listened  with  twinkling  eyes  to 
these  high  matters.  He  did  n't  understand  politics  him- 
self,—  thought  they  were  a  natural  gift,  —  but  by  what  he 
could  make  out,  this  Duke  of  Wellington  was  no  better  than 
he  should  be. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MR.    TULLIVER   SHOWS    HIS    WEAKER   SIDE. 

"  SUPPOSE  sister  Glegg  should  call  her  money  in ;  it  'ud  be 
very  awkward  for  you  to  have  to  raise  five  hundred  pounds 
now,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver  to  her  husband  that  evening,  as  she 
took  a  plaintive  review  of  the  day. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  had  lived  thirteen  years  with  her  husband, 
yet  she  retained  in  all  the  freshness  of  her  early  married  life 
a  facility  of  saying  things  which  drove  him  in  the  opposite 
direction  to  the  one  she  desired.  Some  minds  are  wonderful 
for  keeping  their  bloom  in  this  way,  as  a  patriarchal  gold-fish 
apparently  retains  to  the  last  its  youthfiil  illusion  that  it  can 
swim  in  a  straight  line  beyond  the  encircling  glass.  Mrs. 
Tulliver  was  an  amiable  fish  of  this  kind,  and  after  running 
her  head  against  the  same  resisting  medium  for  thirteen  years, 
would  go  at  it  again  to-day  with  undulled  alacrity. 

This  observation  of  hers  tended  directly  to  convince  Mr. 
Tnlliver  that  it  would  not  be  at  all  awkward  for  him  to  raise 
five  hundred  pounds ;  and  when  Mrs.  Tulliver  became  rather 


68  THE   MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

pressing  to  know  how  he  would  raise  it  without  mortgaging 
the  mill  and  the  house  which  lie  hud  said  he  never  would 
mortgage,  since  nowadays  people  were  none  so  ready  to  lend 
money  without  security,  .Mr.  Tulliver,  getting  warm,  declared 
that  Mrs.  Glegg  might  do  as  she  liked  about  calling  in  her 
money,  he  should  pay  it  in  whether  or  not.  lie  was  not  going  to 
be  beholden  to  his  wife's  sisters.  When  a  man  had  married 
into  a  family  where  there  was  a  whole  litter  of  women,  he 
might  have  plenty  to  put  up  with  if  he  chose.  But  Mr.  Tulli 
ver  did  not  choose. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  cried  a  little  in  a  trickling,  quiet  way  as  she 
put  on  her  nightcap ;  but  presently  sank  into  a  comfortable 
sleep,  lulled  by  the  thought  that  she  would  talk  everything 
over  with  her  sister  Pullet  to-morrow,  when  she  was  to  take 
the  children  to  Garum  Firs  to  tea.  Not  that  she  looked  for- 
ward to  any  distinct  issue  from  that  talk;  but  it  seemed 
impossible  that  past  events  should  be  so  obstinate  as  to 
remain  unmodified  when  they  were  complained  against. 

Her  husband  lay  awake  rather  longer,  for  he  too  was  thinking 
of  a  visit  he  would  pay  on  the  morrow  ;  and  his  ideas  on  the 
subject  were  not  of  so  vague  and  soothing  a  kind  as  those  of 
his  amiable  partner. 

Mr.  Tulliver,  when  under  the  influence  of  a  strong  feeling, 
had  a  promptitude  in  action  that  may  seem  inconsistent  with 
that  painful  sense  of  the  complicated,  puzzling  nature  of  human 
affairs  under  which  his  more  dispassionate  deliberations  were 
conducted;  but  it  is  really  not  improbable  that  there  was  a 
direct  relation  between  these  apparently  contradictory  phe- 
nomena, since  I  have  observed  that  for  getting  a  strong 
impression  that  a  skein  is  tangled,  there  is  nothing  like 
snatching  hastily  at  a  single  thread.  It  was  owing  to  this 
promptitude  that  Mr.  Tulliver  was  on  horseback  soon  alter 
dinner  the  next  day  (he  was  not  dyspeptic)  on  his  way  to 
Basset  to  see  his  sister  Moss  and  her  husband.  For  having 
made  up  his  mind  irrevocably  that  he  would  pay  Mrs.  G 
her  loan  of  five  hundred  pounds,  it  naturally  occurred  to  hin> 
that  he  had  a  promissory  note  for  three  hundred  pounds  lent  t' 
his  brother-in-law  Moss  ;  and  if  the  said  brother-in-law  could 
manage  to  pay  in  the  money  within  a  given  time,  it  would  go 
far  to  lessen  the  fallacious  air  of  inconvenience  which  .Mr. 
Tulliver's  spirited  step  might  have  worn  in  the  eyes  of  weak 
people  who  require  to  know  precisely  how  a  thing  is  to  be 
done  before  they  are  strongly  confident  that  it  will  be  easy. 

For  Mr.  Tulliver  was  in  a  position  neither  new  nor  striking, 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  69 

but,  like  other  every-day  things,  sure  to  have  a  cumulative 
effect  that  will  be  felt  in  the  long-run :  he  was  held  to  be  a 
much  more  substantial  man  than  he  really  was.  And  as  we 
are  all  apt  to  believe  what  the  world  believes  about  us,  it 
was  his  habit  to  think  of  failure  and  ruin  with  the  same  sort 
of  remote  pity  with  which  a  spare,  long-necked  man  hears 
that  his  plethoric  short-necked  neighbour  is  striken  with  apo- 
plexy. He  had  been  always  used  to  hear  pleasant  jokes 
about  his  advantages  as  a  man  who  worked  his  own  mill,  and 
owned  a  pretty  bit  of  land  ;  and  these  jokes  naturally  kept  up 
his  sense  that  he  was  a  man  of  considerable  substance.  They 
gave  a  pleasant  flavour  to  his  glass  on  a  market-day,  and  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  recurrence  of  half-yearly  payments, 
Mr.  Tulliver  would  really  have  forgotten  that  there  was  a 
mortgage  of  two  thousand  pounds  on  his  very  desirable  free- 
hold. That  was  not  altogether  his  own  fault,  since  one  of  the 
thousand  pounds  was  his  sister's  fortune,  which  he  had  to  pay 
on  her  marriage  ;  and  a  man  who  has  neighbours  that  will  go 
to  law  with  him  is  not  likely  to  pay  off  his  mortgages,  espe- 
cially if  he  enjoys  the  good  opinion  of  acquaintances  who 
want  to  borrow  a  hundred  pounds  on  security  too  lofty  to  be 
represented  by  parchment.  Our  friend  Mr.  Tulliver  had  a 
good-natured  fibre  in  him,  and  did  not  like  to  give  harsh 
refusals  even  to  a  sister,  who  had  not  only  come  into  the 
world  in  that  superfluous  way  characteristic  of  sisters,  creat- 
ing a  necessity  for  mortgages,  but  had  quite  thrown  herself 
away  in  marriage,  and  had  crowned  her  mistakes  by  having 
an  eighth  baby.  On  this  point  Mr.  Tulliver  was  conscious 
of  being  a  little  weak  ;  but  he  apologised  to  himself  by  saying 
that  poor  Gritty  had  been  a  good-looking  wench  before  she 
married  Moss ;  he  would  sometimes  say  this  even  with  a 
slight  tremulousness  in  his  voice.  But  this  morning  he  was 
in  a  mood  more  becoming  a  man  of  business,  and  in  the  course 
of  his  ride  along  the  Basset  lanes,  with  their  deep  ruts,  — 
ying  so  far  away  from  a  market-town  that  the  labour  of  draw- 
ing produce  and  manure  was  enough  to  take  away  the  best 
part  of  the  profits  on  such  poor  land  as  that  parish  was  made 
of,  —  he  got  up  a  due  amount  of  irritation  against  Moss  as  a 
man  without  capital,  who,  if  murrain  and  blight  were  abroad, 
was  sure  to  have  his  share  of  them,  and  who,  the  more  you 
tried  to  help  him  out  of  the  mud,  would  sink  the  further  in. 
It  would  do  him  good  rather  than  harm,  now,  if  he  were 
obliged  to  raise  this  three  hundred  pounds;  it  would  make 
him  look  about  him  better,  and  not  act  so  foolishly  about  his 


70  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

wool  this  year  as  he  did  the  last ;  in  fact,  Mr.  Tulliver  had 
been  too  easy  with  his  brother-in-law,  and  because  he  had  let 
the  interest  run  on  for  two  years,  Moss  was  likely  enough  to 
think  that  he  should  never  be  troubled  about  the  principal. 
But  Mr.  Tulliver  was  determined  not  to  encourage  such 
shuffling  people  any  longer  ;  and  a  ride  along  the  Basset  lanes 
was  not  likely  to  enervate  a  man's  resolution  by  softening  his 
temper.  The  deep-trodden  hoof-marks,  made  in  the  muddiest 
days  of  winter,  gave  him  a  shake  now  and  then  which  sug- 
gested a  rash  but  stimulating  snarl  at  the  father  of  lawyers, 
who,  whether  by  means  of  his  hoof  or  otherwise,  had  doubtless 
something  to  do  with  this  state  of  the  roads  ;  and  the  abun- 
dance of  foul  land  and  neglected  fences  that  met  his  eye, 
though  they  made  no  part  of  his  brother  Moss's  farm,  strongly 
contributed  to  his  dissatisfaction  with  that  unlucky  agri- 
culturist. If  this  was  n't  Moss's  fallow,  it  might  have  been ; 
Basset  was  all  alike ;  it  was  a  beggarly  parish,  in  Mr.  Tulliver's 
opinion,  and  his  opinion  was  certainly  not  groundless.  Basset 
had  a  poor  soil,  poor  roads,  a  poor  non-resident  landlord,  a 
poor  non-resident  vicar,  and  rather  less  than  half  a  curate, 
also  poor.  If  any  one  strongly  impressed  with  the  power  of 
the  human  mind  to  triumph  over  circumstances  will  contend 
that  the  parishioners  of  Basset  might  nevertheless  have  been 
a  very  superior  class  of  people,  I  have  nothing  to  urge  against 
that  abstract  proposition ;  I  only  know  that,  in  point  of  fact, 
the  Basset  mind  was  in  strict  keeping  with  its  circumstances. 
The  muddy  lanes,  green  or  clayey,  that  seemed  to  the  unac- 
customed eye  to  lead  nowhere  but  into  each  other,  did  really 
lead,  with  patience,  to  a  distant  highroad ;  but  there  were 
many  feet  in  Basset  which  they  led  more  frequently  to  a 
centre  of  dissipation,  spoken  of  formerly  as  the  "  Markis  o' 
Granby,"  but  among  intimates  as  "  Dickison's."  A  large  low 
room  with  a  sanded  floor;  a  cold  scent  of  tobacco,  modified  by 
undetected  beer-dregs ;  Mr.  Dickison  leaning  against  the  door- 
post with  a  melancholy  pimpled  face,  looking  as  irrelevant  to 
the  daylight  as  a  last  night's  guttered  candle,  —  all  this  may 
not  seem  a  very  seductive  form  of  temptation ;  but  the 
majority,  of  men  in  Basset  found  it  fatally  alluring  when 
encountered  on  their  road  towards  four  o'clock  on  a  wintry 
afternoon  ;  and  if  any  wife  in  Basset  wished  to  indicate  that 
her  husband  was  ;iot  a  pleasure-seeking  man,  she  could  hardly 
do  it  more  emphatically  than  by  saying  that  he  did  n't  spend 
a  shilling  at  Dickison's  from  one  Whitsuntide  to  another. 
Mrs.  Moss  had  said  so  of  her  husband  more  than  once,  when 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  71 

her  brother  was  in  a  mood  to  find  fault  with  him,  as  he  ceis 
tainly  was  to-day.  And  nothing  could  be  less  pacifying  to 
Mr.  Tulliver  than  the  behaviour  of  the  farmyard  gate,  which 
he  no  sooner  attempted  to  push  open  with  his  riding-stick, 
than  it  acted  as  gates  without  the  upper  hinge  are  known  to 
do,  to  the  peril  of  shins,  whether  equine  or  human.  He  was 
about  to  get  down  and  lead  his  horse  through  the  damp  dirt 
of  the  hollow  farmyard,  shadowed  drearily  by  the  large  half- 
timbered  buildings,  up  to  the  long  line  of  tumble-down  dwell- 
ing-houses standing  on  a  raised  causeway;  but  the  timely 
appearance  of  a  cowboy  saved  him  that  frustration  of  a  plan 
he  had  determined  on,  —  namely,  not  to  get  down  from  his 
horse  during  this  visit.  If  a  man  means  to  be  hard,  let  him 
keep  in  his  saddle  and  speak  from  that  height,  above  the  level 
of  pleading  eyes,  and  with  the  command  of  a  distant  horizon. 
Mrs.  Moss  heard  the  sound  of  the  horse's  feet,  and,  when  her 
brother  rode  up,  was  already  outside  the  kitchen  door,  with 
a  half-weary  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  black-eyed  baby  in  her 
arms.  Mrs.  Moss's  face  bore  a  faded  resemblance  to  her 
brother's ;  baby's  little  fat  hand,  pressed  against  her  cheek, 
seemed  to  show  more  strikingly  that  the  cheek  was  faded. 

"  Brother,  I  'in  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  in  an  affectionate 
tone.  "  I  did  n't  look  for  you  to-day.  How  do  you  do  ?  " 

"Oh,  pretty  well,  Mrs.  Moss,  pretty  well,"  answered  the 
brother,  with  cool  deliberation,  as  if  it  were  rather  too  forward 
of  her  to  ask  that  question.  She  knew  at  once  that  her  brother 
was  not  in  a  good  humour ;  he  never  called  her  Mrs.  Moss 
except  when  he  was  angry,  and  when  they  were  in  company. 
But  she  thought  it  was  in  the  order  of  nature  that  people  who 
were  poorly  off  should  be  snubbed.  Mrs.  Moss  did  not  take 
her  stand  on  the  equality  of  the  human  race;  she  was  a 
patient,  prolific,  loving-hearted  woman. 

"  Your  husband  is  n't  in  the  house,  I  suppose  ?  "  added  Mr. 
Tulliver  after  a  grave  pause,  during  which  four  children  had 
run  out,  like  chickens  whose  mother  has  been  suddenly  in 
eclipse  behind  the  hencoop. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  "  but  he  's  only  in  the  potato-field 
yonders.  Georgy,  run  to  the  Far  Close  in  a  minute,  and  tell 
father  your  uncle  's  come.  You  '11  get  down,  brother,  won't 
you,  and  take  something  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  I  can't  get  down.  I  must  be  going  home  again 
directly,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  looking  at  the  distance. 

'•  And  how 's  Mrs.  Tulliver  and  the  children  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Moss,  humbly,  not  daring  to  press  her  invitation. 


72  THE   MILL    ON    THE    FLOSS. 

"  Oh,  pretty  well.  Tom 's  going  to  a  new  school  at  Mid. 
summer,  —  a  deal  of  expense  to  me.  It 's  bad  work  for  me, 
lying  out  o'  my  money." 

"  I  wish  you  'd  be  so  good  as  let  the  children  come  and  see 
their  cousins  some  day.  My  little  uns  want  to  see  their 
cousin  Maggie  so  as  never  was.  And  me  her  god-mother,  and 
so  fond  of  her;  there's  nobody  'ud  make  a  bigger  fuss  with 
her,  according  to  what  they've  got.  And  I  know  she  likes  to 
come,  for  she  's  a  loving  child,  and  how  quick  and  clever  .sin- 
is,  to  be  sure ! " 

If  Mrs.  Moss  had  been  one  of  the  most  astute  women  in  the 
world,  instead  of  being  one  of  the  simplest,  she  could  have 
thought  of  nothing  more  likely  to  propitiate  her  brother  than 
this  praise  of  M aggie.  He  seldom  found  any  one  volunteer- 
ing praise  of  "  the  little  wench  ; "  it  was  usually  left  entirely 
to  himself  to  insist  on  her  merits.  But  Maggie  always 
appeared  in  the  most  amiable  light  at  her  aunt  Moss's  ;  it 
was  her  Alsatia,  where  she  was  out  of  the  reach  of  law,  —  if 
she  upset  anything,  dirtied  her  shoes,  or  tore  her  frock,  these 
things  were  matters  of  course  at  her  aunt  Moss's.  In  spite  of 
himself,  Mr.  Tulliver's  eyes  got  milder,  and  he  did  not  look 
away  from  his  sister  as  he  said,  — 

"  Ay ;  she  's  fonder  o'  you  than  o'  the  other  aunts,  I  think. 
She  takes  after  our  family :  not  a  bit  of  her  mother's  in 
her." 

"  Moss  says  she  's  just  like  what  I  used  to  be,"  said  Mrs. 
Moss,  "though  I  was  never  so  quick  and  fond  o'  the  books. 
But  I  think  my  Lizzy 's  like  her ;  she  's  sharp.  Come  here, 
Lizzy,  my  dear,  and  let  your  uncle  see  you ;  lie  hardly  knows 
you,  you  grow  so  fast." 

Lizzy,  a  black-eyed  child  of  seven,  looked  very  shy  when 
her  mother  drew  her  forward,  for  the  small  Mosses  were 
much  in  awe  of  their  uncle  from  Dorlcote  Mill.  She  was  infe- 
rior enough  to  Maggie  in  fire  and  strength  of  expression  to 
make  the  resemblance  between  the  two  entirely  flattering  to 
Mr.  Tulliver's  fatherly  love. 

"Ay,  they're  a  bit  alike,"  he  said,  looking  kindly  at  the 
little  figure  in  the  soiled  pinafore.  "  They  both  take  after  our 
mother.  You  've  got  enough  o'  gells,  Gritty,"  he  added,  in  a 
tone  half  compassionate,  half  reproachful. 

"  Four  of  'em,  bless  'em ! "  said  Mrs.  Moss,  with  a  sigh, 
stroking  Lizzy  's  hair  on  each  side  of  her  forehead  ;  "  as  many 
as  there 's  boys.  They  've  got  a  brother  apiece." 

"  Ah,  but  they  must  turn  out  and  fend  for  themselves,"  said 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  73 

Mr.  Tulliver,  feeling  that  his  severity  was  relaxingj,  and  try- 
in-  to  brace  it  by  throwing  out  a  wholesome  hint.  "  They 
mustn't  look  to  hanging  on  their  brothers." 

"  No ;  but  I  hope  their  brothers  'ull  love  the  poor  things, 
and  remember  they  came  o'  one  father  and  mother ;  the  lads 
'ull  never  be  the  poorer  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  flashing  out 
with  hurried  timidity,  like  a  half-smothered  fire. 

Mr.  Tulliver  gave  his  horse  a  little  stroke  on  the  flank,  then 
checked  it,  and  said  angrily,  "  Stand  still  with  you  ! "  much  to 
the  astonishment  of  that  innocent  animal. 

"  And  the  more  there  is  of  'em,  the  more  they  must  love  one 
another,"  Mrs.  Moss  went  on,  looking  at  her  children  with 
a  didactic  purpose.  But  she  turned  towards  her  brother  again 
to  say.  "Not  but  what  I  hope  your  boy  'ull  allays  be  good  to 
his  sister,  though  there  's  but  two  of  'em,  like  you  and  me, 
brother." 

That  arrow  went  straight  to  Mr.  Tulliver's  heart.  He  had 
not  a  rapid  imagination,  but  the  thought  of  Maggie  was  very 
near  to  him,  and  he  was  not  long  in  seeing  his  relation  to 
his  own  sister  side  by  side  with  Tom's  relation  to  Maggie. 
Would  the  little  wench  ever  be  poorly  off,  and  Tom  rather 
hard  upon  her  ? 

"  Ay,  ay,  Gritty,"  said  the  miller,  with  a  new  softness  in  his 
tone ;  "  but  I  've  allays  done  what  I  could  for  you,"  he  added, 
as  if  vindicating  himself  from  a  reproach. 

"  I  'm  not  denying  that,  brother,  and  I  'm  noways  ungrate- 
ful," said  poor  Mrs.  Moss,  too  fagged  by  toil  and  children  to 
have  strength  left  for  any  pride.  "  But  here 's  the  father. 
What  a  while  you  've  been,  Moss ! " 

"While,  do  you  call  it?"  said  Mr.  Moss,  feeling  out  of 
breath  and  injured.  "  I  've  been  running  all  the  way.  Won't 
you  'light,  Mr.  Tulliver  ?  " 

".Well,  I'll  just  get  down  and  have  a  bit  o'  talk  with  you 
in  the  garden,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  thinking  that  he  should  be 
more  likely  to  show  a  due  spirit  of  resolve  if  his  sister  were 
not  present. 

He  got  down,  and  passed  with  Mr.  Moss  into  the  garden, 
towards  an  old  yew-tree  arbour,  while  his  sister  stood  tapping 
her  baby  on  the  back  and  looking  wistfully  after  them. 

Their  entrance  into  the  yew-tree  arbour  surprised  several 
fowls  that  were  recreating  themselves  by  scratching  deep 
holes  in  the  dusty  ground,  and  at  once  took  flight  with  much 
pother  and  cackling.  Mr.  Tulliver  sat  down  on  the  bench,  and 
tapping  the  ground  curiously  here  and  there  with  his  stick,  as 


74  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

if  he  suspected  some  hollowness,  opened  the  conversation  by 
observing,  with  something  like  a  snarl  in  his  tone,  — 

"  Why,  you  've  got  wheat  again  in  that  Corner  Close,  I  see  ; 
and  never  a  bit  o'  dressing  on  it.  You  '11  do  no  good  with  it 
this  year." 

Mr.  Moss,  who,  when  he  married  Miss  Tulliver,  had  been 
regarded  as  the  buck  of  Basset,  now  wore  a  beard  nearly  a 
week  old,  and  had  the  depressed,  unexpectant  air  of  a  ma- 
chine-horse. He  answered  in  a  patient-grumbling  tone,  "  Why, 
poor  farmers  like  me  must  do  as  they  can ;  they  must  leave  it 
to  them  as  have  got  money  to  play  with,  to  put  half  as  much 
into  the  ground  as  they  mean  to  get  out  of  it." 

"  I  don't  know  who  should  have  money  to  play  with,  if  it 
is  n't  them  as  can  borrow  money  without  paying  interest," 
said  Mr.  Tulliver,  who  wished  to  get  into  a  slight  quarrel ;  it 
was  the  most  natural  and  easy  introduction  to  calling  in 
money. 

"  I  know  I  'm  behind  with  the  interest,"  said  Mr.  Moss, 
"  but  I  was  so  unlucky  wi'  the  wool  last  year ;  and  what  with 
the  Missis  being  laid  up  so,  things  have  gone  awk'arder  nor 
usual." 

"  Ay,"  snarled  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  there  's  folks  as  things  'ull 
allays  go  awk'ard  with;  empty  sacks  'ull  never  stand  up- 
right." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  fault  you  've  got  to  find  wi'  me, 
Mr.  Tulliver,"  said  Mr.  Moss,  deprecatingly ;  "  I  know  there 
is  n't  a  day-labourer  works  harder." 

"  What 's  the  use  o'  that,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  sharply,  "  when 
a  man  marries,  and  's  got  no  capital  to  work  his  farm  but  his 
wife's  bit  o'  fortin  ?  I  was  against  it  from  the  first ;  but  you'd 
neither  of  you  listen  to  me.  And  I  can't  lie  out  o'  my  money 
any  longer,  for  I  've  got  to  pay  five  hundred  o'  Mrs.  Glegg's, 
and  there  '11  be  Tom  an  expense  to  me.  I  should  find  myself 
short,  even  saying  I'd  got  back  all  as  is  my  own.  You  must 
look  about  and  see  how  you  can  pay  me  the  three  hundred 
pound." 

"  Well,  if  that 's  what  you  mean,"  said  Mr.  Moss,  looking 
blankly  before  him,  "  we  'd  better  be  sold  up,  and  ha'  done 
with  it ;  I  must  part  wi'  every  head  o'  stock  I  've  got,  to  pay 
you  and  the  landlord  too." 

Poor  relations  are  undeniably  irritating,  —  their  existence 
is  so  entirely  uncalled  for  on  our  part,  and  they  are  almost 
always  very  faulty  people.  Mr.  Tulliver  had  succeeded  in 
getting  quite  as  much  irritated  with  Mr.  Moss  as  he  ka<l 


BOY  AXD   GIRL.  75 

desired,  and  he  was  able  to  say  angrily,  rising  from  his 
seat,  — 

"  Well,  you  must  do  as  you  can.  /  can't  find  money  for 
everybody  else  as  well  as  myself.  I  must  look  to  my  own 
business  and  my  own  family.  I  can't  lie  out  o'  my  money 
any  longer.  You  must  raise  it  as  quick  as  you  can." 

Mr.  Tulliver  walked  abruptly  out  of  the  arbour  as  he 
uttered  the  last  sentence,  and  without  looking  round  at  Mr. 
Moss,  went  on  to  the  kitchen  door,  where  the  eldest  boy  was 
holding  his  horse,  and  his  sister  was  waiting  in  a  state  of 
wondering  alarm,  which  was  not  without  its  alleviations,  for 
baby  was  making  pleasant  gurgling  sounds,  and  performing 
a  great  deal  of  finger  practice  on  the  faded  face.  Mrs.  Moss 
had  eight  children,  but  could  never  overcome  her  regret  that 
the  twins  had  not  lived.  Mr.  Moss  thought  their  removal 
was  not  without  its  consolations.  "  Won't  you  come  in, 
brother  ? "  she  said,  looking  anxiously  at  her  husband,  who 
was  walking  slowly  up,  while  Mr.  Tulliver  had  his  foot  al- 
ready in  the  stirrup. 

"  No,  no ;  good-bye/'  said  he,  turning  his  horse's  head,  and 
riding  away. 

No  man  could  feel  more  resolute  till  he  got  outside  the 
yard-gate,  and  a  little  way  along  the  deep-rutted  lane ;  but 
before  he  reached  the  next  turning,  which  would  take  him 
out  of  sight  of  the  dilapidated  farm  buildings,  he  appeared 
to  be  smitten  by  some  sudden  thought.  He  checked  his 
horse,  and  made  it  stand  still  in  the  same  spot  for  two  or 
three  minutes,  during  which  he  turned  his  head  from  side  to 
side  in  a  melancholy  way,  as  if  he  were  looking  at  some  pain- 
ful object  on  more  sides  than  one.  Evidently,  after  his  fit  of 
promptitude,  Mr.  Tulliver  was  relapsing  into  the  sense  that 
this  is  a  puzzling  world.  He  turned  his  horse,  and  rode 
slowly  back,  giving  vent  to  the  climax  of  feeling  which  had 
determined  this  movement  by  saying  aloud,  as  he  struck  his 
horse,  "  Poor  little  wench !  she  '11  have  nobody  but  Tom,  be 
like,  when  I'm  gone." 

Mr.  Tulliver's  return  into  the  yard  was  descried  by  several 
young  Mosses,  who  immediately  ran  in  with  the  exciting  news 
to  their  mother,  so  that  Mrs.  Moss  was  again  on  the  door-step 
when  her  brother  rode  up.  She  had  been  crying,  but  was  rock- 
ing baby  to  sleep  in  her  arms  now,  and  made  no  ostentatious 
show  of  sorrow  as  her  brother  looked  at  her,  but  merely  said : 

"  The  father 's  gone  to  the  field  again,  if  you  want  him, 
brother." 


76  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"!N"o,  Gritty,  no,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  in  a  gentle  tone. 
"Don't  you  fret,  —  that 's  all,  — I '11  make  a  shift  without  the 
money  a  bit,  only  you  must  be  as  clever  and  contriving  as 
you  can." 

Mrs.  Moss's  tears  came  again  at  this  unexpected  kindness, 
and  she  could  say  nothing. 

"  Come,  come  !  —  the  little  wench  shall  come  and  see  you. 
I  '11  bring  her  and  Tom  some  day  before  he  goes  to  school.  You 
must  n't  fret.  I  '11  allays  be  a  good  brother  to  you." 

"  Thank  you  for  that  word,  brother,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  drying 
her  tears ;  then  turning  to  Lizzy,  she  said,  "  Eun  now,  and . 
fetch  the  coloured  egg  for  cousin  Maggie."  Lizzy  ran  in,  and 
quickly  reappeared  with  a  small  paper  parcel. 

"  It 's  boiled  hard,  brother,  and  coloured  with  thrums,  very 
pretty ;  it  was  done  o'  purpose  for  Maggie.  Will  you  please 
to  carry  it  in  your  pocket  ?  " 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  putting  it  carefully  in  his 
side-pocket.  "  Good-bye." 

And  so  the  respectable  miller  returned  along  the  Basset 
lanes  rather  more  puzzled  than  before  as  to  ways  and  means, 
but  still  with  the  sense  of  a  danger  escaped.  It  had  come 
across  his  mind  that  if  he  were  hard  upon  his  sister,  it  might 
somehow  tend  to  make  Tom  hard  upon  Maggie  at  some  dis- 
tant day,  when  her  father  was  no  longer  there  to  take  her  part ; 
for  simple  people,  like  our  friend  Mr.  Tulliver,  are  apt  to 
clothe  unimpeachable  feelings  in  erroneous  ideas,  and  this 
was  his  confused  way  of  explaining  to  himself  that  his  love 
and  anxiety  for  "the  little  wench"  had  given  him  a  new 
sensibility  towards  his  sister. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

TO    GARUM    FIRS. 

WHILE  the  possible  troubles  of  Maggie's  future  were  occupy- 
ing her  father's  mind,  she  herself  was  tasting  only  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  present.  Childhood  has  no  forebodings ;  but  then, 
it  is  soothed  by  no  memories  of  outlived  sorrow. 

The  fact  was,  the  day  had  begun  ill  with  Maggie.  The 
pleasure  of  having  Lucy  to  look  at,  and  the  prospect  of  the 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  77 

v 

afternoon  visit  to  Garum  Firs,  where  she  would  hear  uncle 
Pullet's  musical  box,  had  been  marred  as  early  as  eleven 
o'clock  by  the  advent  of  the  hairdresser  from  St.  Ogg's,  who 
had  spoken  in  the  severest  terms  of  the  condition  in  which 
he  had  found  her  hair,  holding  up  one  jagged  lock  after 
another  and  saying,  "  See  here !  tut,  tut,  tut !  "  in  a  tone  of 
mingled  disgust  and  pity,  which  to  Maggie's  imagination  was 
equivalent  to  the  strongest  expression  of  public  opinion.  Mr. 
liappit,  the  hairdresser,  with  his  well-anointed  coronal  locks 
tending  wavily  upward,  like  the  simulated  pyramid  of  flame 
on  a  monumental  urn,  seemed  to  her  at  that  moment  the  most 
formidable  of  her  contemporaries,  into  whose  street  at  St. 
Ogg's  she  would  carefully  refrain  from  entering  through  the 
rest  of  her  life. 

Moreover,  the  preparation  for  a  visit  being  always  a  serious 
affair  in  the  Dodson  family,  Martha  was  enjoined  to  have  Mrs. 
Tulliver's  room  ready  an  hour  earlier  than  usual,  that  the 
laying  out  of  the  best  clothes  might  not  be  deferred  till  the 
last  moment,  as  was  sometimes  the  case  in  families  of  lax 
views,  where  the  ribbon-strings  were  never  rolled  up,  where 
there  was  little  or  no  wrapping  in  silver  paper,  and  where  the 
sense  that  the  Sunday  clothes  could  be  got  at  quite  easily  pro- 
duced no  shock  to  the  mind.  Already,  at  twelve  o'clock,  Mrs. 
Tulliver  had  on  her  visiting  costume,  with  a  protective  appa- 
ratus of  brown  holland,  as  if  she  had  been  a  piece  of  satin 
furniture  in  danger  of  flies  ;  Maggie  was  frowning  and  twist- 
ing her  shoulders,  that  she  might  if  possible  shrink  away  from 
the  prickliest  of  tuckers,  while  her  mother  was  remonstrating, 
"  Don't,  Maggie,  my  dear  ;  don't  make  yourself  so  ugly  !  " 
and  Tom's  cheeks  were  looking  particularly  brilliant  as  a 
relief  to  his  best  blue  suit,  which  he  wore  with  becoming 
calmness,  having,  after  a  little  wrangling,  effected  what  was 
always  the  one  point  of  interest  to  him  in  his  toilet ;  he  had 
transferred  all  the  contents  of  his  every-day  pockets  to  those 
actually  in  wear. 

As  for  Lucy,  she  was  just  as  pretty  and  neat  as  she  had 
been  yesterday  ;  no  accidents  ever  happened  to  her  clothes, 
and  she  was  never  uncomfortable  in  them,  so  that  she  looked 
with  wondering  pity  at  Maggie,  pouting  and  writhing  under 
the  exasperating  tucker.  Maggie  would  certainly  have  torn 
it  off,  if  she  had  not  been  checked  by  the  remembrance  of  her 
recent  humiliation  about  her  hair ;  as  it  was,  she  confined  her- 
self to  fretting  and  twisting,  and  behaving  peevishly  about  the 
card-houses  which  they  were  allowed  to  build  till  dinner,  as  a 


78  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

suitable  amusement  for  boys  and  girls  in  their  best  clothes. 
Tom  could  build  perfect  pyramids  of  houses;  but  Ala 
would  never  bear  the  laying  on  of  the  roof.  It  was  always 
so  with  the  things  that  Maggie  made;  and  Tom  had  deduced 
the  conclusion  that  no  girls  could  ever  make  anything.  But  it 
happened  that  Lucy  proved  wonderfully  clever  at  building ; 
she  handled  the  cards  so  lightly,  and  moved  so  gently,  that 
Tom  condescended  to  admire  her  houses  as  well  as  his  own, 
the  more  readily  because  she  had  asked  him  to  teach  her. 
Mnggie,  too,  would  have  admired  Lucy's  houses,  and  would 
have  given  up  her  own  unsuccessful  building  to  contemplate 
them,  without  ill-temper,  if  her  tucker  had  not  made  her 
peevish,  ;md  if  Tom  had  not  inconsiderately  laughed  when 
her  houses  fell,  and  told  her  she  was  "  a  stupid." 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me,  Tom  !  "  she  burst  out  angrily  ;  "  I  'm 
not  a  stupid.  I  know  a  great  many  things  you  don't." 

"  Oh,  I  daresay,  Miss  Spitfire  !  I  'd  never  be  such  a  cross 
thing  as  you,  making  faces  like  that.  Lucy  does  n't  do  so.  I 
like  Lucy  better  than  you  ;  /  wish  Lucy  was  my  sister." 

"  Then  it 's  very  wicked  and  cruel  of  you  to  wish  so,"  said 
Maggie,  starting  up  hurriedly  from  her  place  on  the  floor,  and 
upsetting  Tom's  wonderful  pagoda.  She  really  did  not  mean 
it,  but  the  circumstantial  evidence  was  against  her,  and  Tom 
turned  white  with  anger,  but  said  nothing ;  lie  would  have 
struck  her,  only  he  knew  it  was  cowardly  to  strike  a  girl,  and 
Tom  Tulliver  was  quite  determined  he  would  never  do  any- 
thing cowardly. 

Maggie  stood  in  dismay  and  terror,  while  Tom  got  up  from 
the  floor  and  walked  away,  pale,  from  the  scattered  ruins  oi  his 
pagoda,  and  Lucy  looked  on  mutely,  like  a  kitten  pausing  from 
its  lapping. 

"  Oh,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  at  last,  going  half-way  towards  him, 
"  I  did  n't  mean  to  knock  it  down,  indeed,  indeed  I  did  n't." 

Tom  took  no  notice  of  her,  but  took,  instead,  two  or  three 
hard  peas  out  of  his  pocket,  and  shot  them  with  his  thumb- 
nail against  the  window,  vaguely  at  first,  but  presently  with 
the  distinct  aim  of  hitting  a  superannuated  blue-bottle  which 
was  exposing  its  imbecility  in  the  spring  sunshine,  clearly 
against  the  views  of  Nature,  who  had  provided  Tom  and  the 
peas  for  the  speedy  destruction  of  this  weak  individual. 

Thus  the  morning  had  been  made  heavy  to  Maggie,  and 
Tom's  persistent  coldness  to  her  all  through  their  walk 
spoiled  the  fresh  air  and  sunshine  for  her.  He  called  Lucy 
to  look  at  the  half-built  bird's  nest  without  caring  to  show  it 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  79 

Maggie,  and  peeled  a  willow  switch  for  Lucy  and  himself, 
without  offering  one  to  Maggie.  Lucy  had  said,  "Maggie, 
should  n't  you  like  one  ?  "  but  Tom  was  deaf. 

Still,  the  sight  of  the  peacock  opportunely  spreading  his  tail  on 
the  stackyard  wall,  just  as  they  reached  Garum  Firs,  was  enough 
to  divert  the  mind  temporarily  from  personal  grievances.  And 
this  was  only  the  beginning  of  beautiful  sights  at  Garum  Firs. 
All  the  farmyard  life  was  wonderful  there,  —  bantams,  speckled 
and  top-knotted ;  Friesland  hens,  with  their  feathers  all  turned 
the  wrong  way ;  Guinea-fowls  that  flew  and  screamed  and 
dropped  their  pretty  spotted  feathers  ;  pouter-pigeons  and  a 
tame  magpie  ;  nay,  a  goat,  and  a  wonderful  brindled  dog,  half 
mastiff,  half  bull-dog,  as  large  as  a  lion.  Then  there  were 
white  railings  and  white  gates  all  about,  and  glittering  weath- 
ercocks of  various  design,  and  garden-walks  paved  with 
pebbles  in  beautiful  patterns,  —  nothing  was  quite  common  at 
Garum  Firs  ;  and  Tom  thought  that  the  unusual  size  of 
the  toads  there  was  simply  due  to  the  general  unusualness 
which  characterized  uucle  Pullet's  possessions  as  a  gentleman 
farmer.  Toads  who  paid  rent  were  naturally  leaner.  As  for 
the  house,  it  was  not  less  remarkable;  it  had  a  receding 
centre,  and  two  wings  with  battlemented  turrets,  and  was 
covered  with  glittering  white  stucco. 

Uncle  Pullet  had  seen  the  expected  party  approaching  from 
the  window,  and  made  haste  to  unbar  and  unchain  the  front 
door,  kept  always  in  this  fortified  condition  from  fear  of 
tramps,  who  might  be  supposed  to  know  of  the  glass-case  of 
stuffed  birds  in  the  hall,  and  to  contemplate  rushing  in  and 
carrying  it  away  on  their  heads.  Aunt  Pullet,  too,  appeared 
at  the  doorway,  and  as  soon  as  her  sister  was  within  hearing 
said,  "  Stop  the  children,  for  God's  sake !  Bessy ;  don't  let 
'em  come  up  the  door-steps  ;  Sally  's  bringing  the  old  mat  and 
the  duster,  to  rub  their  shoes." 

Mrs.  Pullet's  front-door  mats  were  by  no  means  intended  to 
wipe  shoes  on;  the  very  scraper  had  a  deputy  to  do  its  dirty 
work.  Tom  rebelled  particularly  against  this  shoe-wiping, 
which  he  always  considered  in  the  light  of  an  indignity  to 
his  sex.  He  felt  it  as  the  beginning  of  the  disagreeables 
incident  to  a  visit  at  aunt  Pullet's,  where  he  had  once  been 
compelled  to  sit  with  towels  wrapped  round  his  boots ;  a  fact 
which  may  serve  to  correct  the  too  hasty  conclusion  that  a 
visit  to  Garum  Firs  must  have  been  a  great  treat  to  a  young 
gentleman  fond  of  animals,  —  fond,  that  is,  of  throwing  stones 
at  them. 


80  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

The  next  disagreeable  was  confined  to  his  feminine  compan- 
ions ;  it  was  the  mounting  of  the  polished  oak  stairs,  which 
had  very  handsome  carpets  rolled  up  and  laid  by  in  a  spare 
bedroom,  so  that  the  ascent  of  these  glossy  steps  might  have 
served,  in  barbarous  times,  as  a  trial  by  ordeal  from  which 
none  but  the  most  spotless  virtue  could  have  come  off  with 
unbroken  limbs.  Sophy's  weakness  about  these  polished 
stairs  was  always  a  subject  of  bitter  remonstrance  on  Mrs. 
Glegg's  part ;  but  Mrs.  Tulliver  ventured  on  no  comment,  only 
thinking  to  herself  it  was  a  mercy  when  she  and  the  children 
were  safe  on  the  landing. 

"  Mrs.  Gray  has  sent  home  my  new  bonnet,  Bessy,"  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  in  a  pathetic  tone,  as  Mrs.  Tulliver  adjusted  her  cap. 

"  Has  she,  sister  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  an  air  of  much 
interest.  "  And  how  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  It 's  apt  to  make  a  mess  with  clothes,  taking  'em  out  and 
putting  'em  in  again,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  drawing  a  bunch 
of  keys  from  her  pocket  and  looking  at  them  earnestly,  "  but 
it  'ud  be  a  pity  for  you  to  go  away  without  seeing  it.  There  's 
no  knowing  what  may  happen." 

Mrs.  Pullet  shook  her  head  slowly  at  this  last  serious 
consideration,  which  determined  her  to  single  out  a  par- 
ticular key. 

"I'm  afraid  it'll  be  troublesome  to  you  getting  it  out, 
sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver ;  "  but  I  should  like  to  see  what  sort 
of  a  crown  she 's  made  you." 

Mrs.  Pullet  rose  with  a  melancholy  air  and  unlocked  one 
wing  of  a  very  bright  wardrobe,  where  you  may  have  hastily 
supposed  she  would  find  the  new  bonnet.  Not  at  all.  Such  a 
supposition  could  only  have  arisen  from  a  too  superficial 
acquaintance  with  the  habits  of  the  Dodson  family.  In 
this  wardrobe  Mrs.  Pullet  was  seeking  something  small 
enough '  to  be  hidden  among  layers  of  linen,  —  it  was  a 
door-key. 

"You  must  come  with  me  into  the  best  room,"  said  Mrs. 
Pullet. 

"  May  the  children  come  too,  sister  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver, who  saw  that  Maggie  and  Lucy  were  looking  rather 
eager. 

"  Well,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  reflectively,  "  it  '11  perhaps  be  safer 
for  'em  to  come ;  they  '11  be  touching  something  if  we  leave 
'em  behind." 

So  they  went  in  procession  along  the  bright  and  slippery 
corridor,  dimly  .aghted  by  the  semi-lunar  top  of  the  window 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  81 

whir>h  rose  above  the  closed  shutter ;  it  was  really  quite  sol- 
emn. Aunt  Pullet  paused  and  unlocked  a  door  which  opened 
on  something  still  more  solemn  than  the  passage,  —  a  darkened 
room,  in  which  the  outer  light,  entering  feebly,  showed  what 
looked  like  the  corpses  of  furniture  in  white  shrouds.  Every- 
thing that  was  not  shrouded  stood  with  its  legs  upwards. 
Lucy  laid  hold  of  Maggie's  frock,  and  Maggie's  heart  beat 
rapidly. 

Aunt  Pullet  half-opened  the  shutter  and  then  unlocked  the 
wardrobe,  with  a  melancholy  deliberateness  which  was  quite 
in  keeping  with  the  funereal  solemnity  of  the  scene.  The 
delicious  scent  of  rose-leaves  that  issued  from  the  wardrobe 
made  the  process  of  taking  out  sheet  after  sheet  of  silver 
paper  quite  pleasant  to  assist  at,  though  the  sight  of  the 
bonnet  at  last  was  an  anticlimax  to  Maggie,  who  would  have 
preferred  something  more  strikingly  preternatural.  But  few 
things  could  have  been  more  impressive  to  Mrs.  Tulliver. 
She  looked  all  round  it  in  silence  for  some  moments,  and  then 
said  emphatically,  "  Well,  sister,  I  '11  never  speak  against  the 
full  crowns  again  !  " 

It  was  a  great  concession,  and  Mrs.  Pullet  felt  it ;  she  felt 
something  was  due  to  it. 

"  You  'd  like  to  see  it  on,  sister  ?  "  she  said  sadly.  "  I  '11 
open  the  shutter  a  bit  further." 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  mind  taking  off  your  cap,  sister,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver. 

Mrs.  Pullet  took  off  her  cap,  displaying  the  brown  silk  scalp 
with  a  jutting  promontory  of  curls  which  was  common  to  the 
more  mature  and  judicious  women  of  those  times,  and  placing 
the  bonnet  on  her  head,  turned  slowly  round,  like  a  draper's 
lay-figure,  that  Mrs.  Tulliver  might  miss  no  point  of  view. 

"  I  've  sometimes  thought  there  's  a  loop  too  much  o'  ribbon 
on  this  left  side,  sister ;  what  do  you  think  ? "  said  Mrs, 
Pullet. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  looked  earnestly  at  the  point  indicated,  and 
turned  her  head  on  one  side.  "  Well,  I  think  it 's  best  as  it 
is  ;  if  you  meddled  with  it,  sister,  you  might  repent." 

"  That 's  true,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  taking  off  the  bonnet  and 
looking  at  it  contemplatively. 

"  How  much  might  she  charge  you  for  that  bonnet,  sister  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  whose  mind  was  actively  engaged  on  the 
possibility  of  getting  a  humble  imitation  of  this  chef-d'oeuvre 
made  from  a  piece  of  silk  she  had  at  home. 

Mrs.  Pullet  screwed  up  her  mouth  and  shook  her  head,  and 


82  Till-:   MILL    ON    THE   FLOSS. 

then  whispered,  "Pullet  pays  for  it;  he  said  I  was  to  have 
the  best  bonnet  at  Grarum  Church,  let  the  next  best  be  whose 
it  would." 

She  began  slowly  to  adjust  the  trimmings,  in  preparation 
for  returning  it  to  its  place  in  the  wardrobe,  and  her  thoughts 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  melancholy  turn,  for  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  may  never  wear  it  twice,  sister ; 
who  knows  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk  o'  that,  sister,"  answered  Mrs.  Tulliver.  "  I 
hope  you'll  have  your  health  this  summer." 

"  Ah !  but  there  may  come  a  death  in  the  family,  as  there 
did  soon  after  I  had  my  green  satin  bonnet.  Cousin  Abbott 
may  go,  and  we  can't  think  o'  wearing  crape  less  nor  half  a 
year  for  him." 

"That  would  be  unlucky,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  entering 
thoroughly  into  the  possibility  of  an  inopportune  decease. 
"  There 's  never  so  much  pleasure  i'  wearing  a  bonnet  the 
second  year,  especially  when  the  crowns  are  so  chancy,  — 
never  two  summers  alike." 

"  Ah,  it 's  the  way  i'  this  world,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  return- 
ing the  bonnet  to  the  wardrobe  and  locking  it  up.  She  main- 
tained a  silence  characterised  by  head-shaking,  until  they  had 
all  issued  from  the  solemn  chamber  and  were  in  her  own 
room  again.  Then,  beginning  to  cry,  she  said,  "  Sister,  if  you 
should  never  see  that  bonnet  again  till  I'm  dead  and  gone, 
you  '11  remember  I  showed  it  you  this  day." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  felt  that  she  ought  to  be  affected,  but  she  was 
a  woman  of  sparse  tears,  stout  and  healthy ;  she  could  n't 
cry  so  much  as  her  sister  Pullet  did,  and  had  often  felt  her 
deficiency  at  funerals.  Her  effort  to  bring  tears  into  her 
eyes  issued  in  an  odd  contraction  of  her  face.  Maggie,  look- 
ing on  attentively,  felt  that  there  was  some  painful  mystery 
about  her  aunt's  bonnet  which  she  was  considered  too  young 
to  understand;  indignantly  conscious,  all  the  while,  that  sli> 
could  have  understood  that,  as  well  as  everything  else,  if  she 
had  been  taken  into  confidence. 

When  they  went  down,  uncle  Pullet  observed  with  some 
acumen,  that  he  reckoned  the  missis  had  been  showing  her 
bonnet, — that  was  what  had  made  them  so  long  up-stairs. 
With  Tom  the  interval  had  seemed  still  longer,  for  he  had 
been  seated  in  irksome  constraint  on  the  edge  of  a  sofa  directly 
opposite  his  uncle  Pullet,  who  regarded  him  with  twinkling 
eyes,  and  occasionally  addressed  him  as  "Young  sir." 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  83 

"  Well,  young  sir,  what  do  you  learn  at  school  ? "  was  a 
standing  question  with  uncle  Pullet ;  whereupon  Tom  always 
looked  sheepish,  rubbed  his  hands  across  his  face,  and  answered, 
"I  don't  know."  It  was  altogether  so  embarrassing  to  be 
seated  tete-a-tete  with  uncle  Pullet,  that  Tom  could  not  even 
look  at  the  prints  on  the  walls,  or  the  fly-cages,  or  the  wonder- 
ful flower-pots  ;  he  saw  nothing  but  his  uncle's  gaiters.  Not 
that  Tom  was  in  awe  of  his  uncle's  mental  superiority ;  indeed, 
lie  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  did  n't  want  to  be  a  gentle- 
man farmer,  because  he  shouldn't  like  to  be  such  a  thin- 
legged,  silly  fellow  as  his  uncle  Pullet,  —  a  molly-coddle,  in 
fact.  A  boy's  sheepishness  is  by  no  means  a  sign  of  over- 
mastering reverence  ;  and  while  you  are  making  encouraging 
advances  to  him  under  the  idea  that  he  is  overwhelmed  by  a 
sense  of  your  age  and  wisdom,  ten  to  one  he  is  thinking  you 
extremely  queer.  The  only  consolation  I  can  suggest  to  you 
is,  that  the  Greek  boys  probably  thought  the  same  of  Aristotle. 
It  is  only  when  you  have  mastered  a  restive  horse,  or  thrashed 
a  drayman,  or  have  got  a  gun  in  your  hand,  that  these  shy 
juniors  feel  you  to  be  a  truly  admirable  and  enviable  character. 
At  least,  I  am  quite  sure  of  Tom  Tulliver's  sentiments  on 
these  points.  In  very  tender  years,  when  he  still  wore  a  lace 
border  under  his  outdoor  cap,  he  was  often  observed  peeping 
through  the  bars  of  a  gate  and  making  minatory  gestures  with 
his  small  fore-finger  while  he  scolded  the  sheep  with  an  inar- 
ticulate burr,  intended  to  strike  terror  into  their  astonished 
minds  ;  indicating  thus  early  that  desire  for  mastery  over  the 
inferior  animals,  wild  and  domestic,  including  cockchafers, 
neighbours'  dogs,  and  small  sisters,  which  in  all  ages  has  been 
an  attribute  of  so  much  promise  for  the  fortunes  of  our  race. 
Now,  Mr.  Pullet  never  rode  anything  taller  than  a  low  pony, 
and  was  the  least  predatory  of  men,  considering  firearms 
dangerous,  as  apt  to  go  off  of  themselves  by  nobody's  particu- 
lar desire.  So  that  Tom  was  not  without  strong  reasons 
when,  in  confidential  talk  with  a  chum,  he  had  described  uncle 
Pullet  as  a  nincompoop,  taking  care  at  the  same  time  to 
observe  that  he  was  a  very  "  rich  fellow." 

The  only  alleviating  circumstance  in  a  tete-a-tete  with  uncle 
Pullet  was  that  he  kept  a  variety  of  lozenges  and  peppermint- 
drops  about  his  person,  and  when  at  a  loss  for  conversation,  he 
filled  up  the  void  by  proposing  a  mutual  solace  of  this  kind. 

"  Do  you  like  peppermints,  young  sir  ? "  required  only  a 
tacit  answer  when  it  was  accompanied  by  a  presentation  of 
the  article  in  question. 


84  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

The  appearance  of  the  little  girls  suggested  to  uncle  Pullet 
the  further  solace  of  small  sweet-cakes,  of  which  he  also  kept 
a  stock  under  lock  and  key  for  his  own  private  eating  on  -vet 
days ;  but  the  three  children  had  no  sooner  got  the  tempting 
delicacy  between  their  fingers,  than  aunt  Pullet  desired  them 
to  abstain  from  eating  it  till  the  tray  and  the  plates  came,  since 
with  those  crisp  cakes  they  would  make  the  floor  "all  over'' 
crumbs.  Lucy  did  n't  mind  that  much,  for  the  cake  was  so 
pretty,  she  thought  it  was  rather  a  pity  to  eat  it ;  but  Tom, 
watching  his  opportunity  while  the  elders  were  talking,  hastih 
stowed  it  in  his  mouth  at  two  bites,  and  chewed  it  furtively. 
As  for  Maggie,  becoming  fascinated,  as  usual,  by  a  print  of 
Ulysses  and  Nausicaa,  which  uncle  Pullet  had  bought  as  a 
"  pretty  Scripture  thing,"  she  presently  let  fall  her  cake,  and 
in  an  unlucky  movement  crushed  it  beneath  her  foot,  —  a 
source  of  so  much  agitation  to  aunt  Pullet  and  conscious  dis- 
grace to  Maggie,  that  she  began  to  despair  of  hearing  the 
musical  snuff-box  to-day,  till,  after  some  reflection,  it  occurred 
to  her  that  Lucy  was  in  high  favour  enough  to  venture  on 
asking  for  a  tune.  So  she  whispered  to  Lucy ;  and  Lucy,  who 
always  did  what  she  was  desired  to  do,  went  up  quietly  to  her 
uncle's  knee,  and  blushing  all  over  her  neck  while  she 
fingered  her  necklace,  said,  "  Will  you  please  play  us  a  tune, 
uncle  ?  " 

Lucy  thought  it  was  by  reason  of  some  exceptional  talent  in 
uncle  Pullet  that  the  snuff-box  played  such  beautiful  tunes, 
and  indeed  the  thing  was  viewed  in  that  light  by  the  majority 
of  his  neighbours  in  Garum.  Mr.  Pullet  had  bought  the  box, 
to  begin  with,  and  he  understood  winding  it  up,  and  knew 
which  tune  it  was  going  to  play  beforehand ;  altogether,  the 
possession  of  this  unique  "  piece  of  music  "  was  a  proof  that 
Mr.  Pullet's  character  was  not  of  that  entire  nullity  which 
might  otherwise  have  been  attributed  to  it.  But  uncle  Pullet, 
when  entreated  to  exhibit  his  accomplishment,  never  depreci- 
ated it  by  a  too  ready  consent.  "  We  '11  see  about  it,"  was 
the  answer  he  always  gave,  carefully  abstaining  from  any 
sign  of  compliance  till  a  suitable  number  of  minutes  had  passed. 
Uncle  Pullet  had  a  programme  for  all  great  social  occasions, 
and  in  this  way  fenced  himself  in  from  much  painful  confusion 
and  perplexing  freedom  of  will. 

Perhaps  the  suspense  did  heighten  Maggie's  enjoyment 
when  the  fairy  tune  began  ;  for  the  first  time  she  quite  forgot 
that  she  had  a  load  on  her  mind,  that  Tom  was  angry  with 
her;  and  by  the  time  "Hush,  ye  pretty  warbling  chcir,"  had 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  85 

been  played,  her  face  wore  that  bright  look  of  happiness, 
while  she  sat  immovable  with  her  hands  clasped,  which 
sometimes  comforted  her  mother  with  the  sense  that  Maggie 
could  look  pretty  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  her  brown  skin. 
But  when  the  magic  music  ceased,  she  jumped  up,  and 
running  towards  Tom,  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  and 
said,  "  Oh,  Tom,  is  n't  it  pretty  ?  " 

Lest  you  should  think  it  showed  a  revolting  insensibility  in 
Tom  that  he  felt  any  new  anger  towards  Maggie  for  this  un- 
called-for, and,  to  him,  inexplicable  caress,  I  must  tell  you  that 
he  had  his  glass  of  cowslip  wine  in  his  hand,  and  that  she 
jerked  him  so  as  to  make  him  spill  half  of  it.  He  must  have 
been  an  extreme  milksop  not  to  say  angrily,  "  Look  there 
now ! "  especially  when  his  resentment  was  sanctioned,  as 
it  was,  by  general  disapprobation  of  Maggie's  behaviour. 

"  Why  don't  you  sit  still,  Maggie  ? "  her  mother  said 
peevishly. 

"  Little  gells  must  n't  come  to  see  me  if  they  behave  in  that 
way,"  said  aunt  Pullet. 

"  Why,  you  're  too  rough,  little  miss,"  said  uncle  Pullet. 

Poor  Maggie  sat  down  again,  with  the  music  all  chased  out 
of  her  soul,  and  the  seven  small  demons  all  in  again. 

Mrs.  Tulliver,  foreseeing  nothing  but  misbehaviour  while 
the  children  remained  indoors,  took  an  early  opportunity  of 
suggesting  that,  now  they  were  rested  after  their  walk,  they 
might  go  and  play  out  of  doors ;  and  aunt  Pullet  gave  permis- 
sion, only  enjoining  them  not  to  go  off  the  paved  walks  in  the 
garden,  and  if  they  wanted  to  see  the  poultry  fed,  to  view 
them  from  a  distance  on  the  horseblock  ;  a  restriction  which 
had  been  imposed  ever  since  Tom  had  been  found  guilty 
of  running  after  the  peacock,  with  an  illusory  idea  that  fright 
would  make  one  of  its  feathers  drop  off. 

Mrs.  Tulliver's  thoughts  had  been  temporarily  diverted  from 
the  quarrel  with  Mrs.  Glegg  by  millinery  and  maternal  cares, 
but  now  the  great  theme  of  the  bonnet  was  thrown  into  per- 
spective, and  the  children  were  out  of  the  way,  yesterday's 
anxieties  recurred. 

"  It  weighs  on  my  mind  so  as  never  was,"  she  said,  by  way 
of  opening  the  subject,  "  sister  Glegg's  leaving  the  house  in 
that  way.  I  'm  sure  I  'd  no  wish  t'  offend  a  sister." 

"  Ah,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  "  there  's  no  accounting  for  what 
Jane  'ull  do.  I  would  n't  speak  of  it  out  o'  the  family,  if  it 
was  n't  to  Dr.  Turnbull ;  but  it 's  my  belief  Jane  lives  too  low. 
I  've  said  so  to  Pullet  often  and  often,  and  he  knows  it." 


86  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

11  Why,  you  said  so  last  Monday  was  a  week,  when  we  came 
away  from  drinking  tea  with  'era,"  said  Mr.  Pullet,  beginning 
to  nurse  his  knee  and  shelter  it  with  his  pocket-handkerchief, 
as  was  his  way  when  the  conversation  took  an  interesting 
turn. 

"  Very  like  I  did,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "  for  you  remember 
when  I  said  things,  better  than  I  can  remember  myself. 
He's  got  a  wonderful  memory,  Pullet  has,"  she  continued, 
looking  pathetically  at  her  sister.  "I  should  bo  poorly  off  if 
he  was  to  have  a  stroke,  for  he  always  remembers  when  I  've 
got  to  take  my  doctor's  stuff ;  and  I  'm  taking  three  sorts 
now." 

"There's  the  'pills  as  before'  every  other  night,  and 
the  new  drops  at  eleven  and  four,  and  the  'fervescing  mixture 
'  when  agreeable,' "  rehearsed  Mr.  Pullet,  with  a  punctuation 
determined  by  a  lozenge  on  his  tongue. 

"  Ah,  perhaps  it  'ud  be  better  for  sister  Glegg  if  she  'd  go  to 
the  doctor  sometimes,  instead  o'  chewing  Turkey  rhubarb 
whenever  there's  anything  the  matter  with  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  who  naturally  saw  the  wide  subject  of  medicine 
chiefly  in  relation  to  Mrs.  Glegg. 

"  It 's  dreadful  to  think  on,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  raising  her 
hands  and  letting  them  fall  again,  "  people  playing  with  their 
own  insides  in  that  way !  And  it 's  flying  i'  the  face  o'  Provi- 
dence ;  for  what  are  the  doctors  for,  if  we  are  n't  to  call  'em 
in  ?  And  when  folks  have  got  the  money  to  pay  for  a  doctor, 
it  is  n't  respectable,  as  I  've  told  Jane  many  a  time.  I  'm 
ashamed  of  acquaintance  knowing  it." 

"  Well,  we  've  no  call  to  be  ashamed,"  said  Mr.  Pullet,  "  for 
Doctor  Turnbull  has  n't  got  such  another  patient  as  you  i'  this 
parish,  now  old  Mrs.  Button  's  gone." 

"  Pullet  keeps  all  my  physic-bottles,  did  you  know,  Bessy  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Pullet.  '•  He  won't  have  one  sold.  He  says  it 's 
nothing  but  right  folks  should  see  'em  when  I  'm  gone.  They 
fill  two  o'  the  long  store-room  shelves  a'ready;  but,"  slie 
added,  beginning  to  cry  a  little,  "  it 's  well  if  they  ever  fill 
three.  I  may  go  before  I  've  made  up  the  dozen  o'  these  last 
sizes.  The  pill-boxes  are  in  the  closet  in  my  room,  —  you  '11 
remember  that,  sister,  —  but  there  's  nothing  to  show  for  the 
boluses,  if  it  is  n't  the  bills." 

"  Don't  talk  o'  your  going,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver ;  "  I 
should  have  nobody  to  stand  between  me  and  sister  Glegg 
if  you  was  gone.  And  there  's  nobody  but  you  can  get  her 
to  make  it  up  with  Mr.  Tulliver,  for  sister  Deane  's  never  o* 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  87 

my  side,  and  if  she  was,  it 's  not  to  be  looked  for  as  she  can 
speak  like  them  as  have  got  an  independent  fortin." 

"Well,  your  husband  is  awk'ard,  you  know,  Bessy,  said 
Mrs.  Pullet,  good-naturedly  ready  to  use  her  deep  depression 
on  her  sister's  account  as  well  as  her  own.  "  He 's  never  be- 
haved quite  so  pretty  to  our  family  as  he  should  do,  and 
the  children  take  after  him,  —  the  boy 's  very  mischievous, 
and  runs  away  from  his  aunts  and  uncles,  and  the  gell  's 
rude  and  brown.  It 's  your  bad-luck,  and  I  'in  sorry  for 
you,  Bessy ;  for  you  was  allays  my  favourite  sister,  and 
we  allays  liked  the  same  patterns." 

"  I  know  Tulliver  's  hasty,  and  says  odd  things,"  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  wiping  away  one  small  tear  from  the  corner  of  her 
eye  ;  "  but  I  'm  sure  he 's  never  been  the  man,  since  he  mar- 
ried rne,  to  object  to  my  making  the  friends  o'  my  side  o'  the 
family  welcome  to  the  house." 

"  I  don't  want  to  make  the  worst  of  you,  Bessy,"  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  compassionately,  "  for  I  doubt  you  '11  have  trouble 
enough  without  that ;  and  your  husband 's  got  that  poor  sis- 
ter and  her  children  hanging  on  him,  —  and  so  given  to  law- 
ing,  they  say.  I  doubt  he  '11  leave  you  poorly  off  when  he  dies. 
Not  as  I  'd  have  it  said  out  o'  the  family." 

This  view  of  her  position  was  naturally  far  from  cheering  to 
Mrs.  Tulliver.  Her  imagination  was  not  easily  acted  on,  but 
she  could  not  help  thinking  that  her  case  was  a  hard  one,  since 
it  appeared  that  other  people  thought  it  hard. 

"  I  'm  sure,  sister,  I  can't  help  myself,"  she  said,  urged 
by  the  fear  lest  her  anticipated  misfortunes  might  be  held 
retributive,  to  take  a  comprehensive  review  of  her  past  con- 
duct. "  There  's  no  woman  strives  more  for  her  children ;  and 
I  'm  sure,  at  scouring-time  this  Ladyday  as  I  've  had  all  the 
bed-hangings  taken  down,  I  did  as  much  as  the  two  gells  put 
together ;  and  there  's  this  last  elder-flower  wine  I  've  made  — 
beautiful !  I  allays  offer  it  along  with  the  sherry,  though  sister 
Glegg  will  have  it  I  'in  so  extravagant ;  and  as  for  liking  to 
have  my  clothes  tidy,  and  not  go  a  fright  about  the  house, 
there  's  nobody  in  the  parish  can  say  anything  against  me  in 
respect  o'  backbiting  and  making  mischief,  for  I  don't  wish 
anybody  any  harm  ;  and  nobody  Joses  by  sending  me  a  pork- 
pie,  for  my  pies  are  fit  to  show  with  the  best  o;  my  neighbours' ; 
and  the  linen  's  so  in  order,  as  if  I  was  to  die  to-morrow  I 
should  n't  be  ashamed.  A  woman  can  do  no  more  nor  she 
can." 

"  But  it 's  all  o'  no  use,  you  know,  Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet, 


88  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

holding  her  head  on  one  side,  and  fixing  her  eyes  pathetically 
on  her  sister,  "  if  your  husband  makes  away  with  his  money. 
Not  but  what  if  you  was  sold  up,  and  other  folks  bought  your 
furniture,  it's  a  comfort  to  think  as  you've  kept  it  well  rubbed. 
And  there  's  the  linen,  with  your  maiden  mark  on,  might  go  all 
over  the  country.  It  'ud  be  a  sad  pity  for  our  family."  Mrs. 
Pullet  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"  But  what  can  I  do,  sister  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver.  "Mr.  Tul- 
liver  's  not  a  man  to  be  dictated  to,  —  not  if  I  was  to  go  to  the 
parson  and  get  by  heart  what  I  should  tell  my  husband  for  the 
best.  And  I  'm  sure  I  don't  pretend  to  know  anything  about 
putting  out  money  and  all  that.  I  could  never  see  into  men's 
business  as  sister  Glegg  does." 

"  Well,  you  're  like  me  in  that,  Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet ; 
"and  I  think  it  'ud  be  a  deal  more  becoming  o'  Jane  if  she  'd 
have  that  pier-glass  rubbed  oftener,  —  there  was  ever  so  many 
spots  on  it  last  week,  —  instead  o'  dictating  to  folks  as  have 
more  comings  in  than  she  ever  had,  and  telling  'em  what 
they  've  to  do  with  their  money.  But  Jane  and  me  were  allays 
contrairy  ;  she  would  have  striped  things,  and  I  like  spots. 
You  like  a  spot  too,  Bessy ;  we  allays  hung  together  i'  that." 

"  Yes,  Sophy,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "  I  remember  our  having 
a  blue  ground  with  a  white  spot  both  alike,  —  I  've  got  a  bit  in 
a  bed-quilt  now ;  and  if  you  would  but  go  and  see  sister  Glegg, 
and  persuade  her  to  make  it  up  with  Tulliver,  I  should  take  it 
very  kind  of  you.  You  was  allays  a  good  sister  to  me." 

"  But  the  right  thing  'ud  be  for  Tulliver  to  go  and  make  it 
up  with  her  himself,  and  say  he  was  sorry  for  speaking  so 
rash.  If  he  's  borrowed  money  of  her,  he  should  n't  be  above 
that,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  whose  partiality  did  not  blind  her  to 
principles ;  she  did  not  forget  what  was  due  to  people  of  inde- 
pendent fortune. 

"  It 's  no  use  talking  o'  that,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  almost 
peevishly.  "  If  I  was  to  go  down  on  my  bare  knees  on  the 
gravel  to  Tulliver,  he  'd  never  humble  himself." 

"  Well,  you  can't  expect  me  to  persuade  Jane  to  beg  pardon,'' 
said  Mrs.  Pullet.  "  Her  temper  's  beyond  everything ;  it 's 
well  if  it  does  n't  carry  her  off  her  mind,  though  there  never 
was  any  of  our  family  went  to  a  madhouse." 

"  I  'm  not  thinking  of  her  begging  pardon,"  said  Mrs.  Tul- 
liver. "  But  if  she  'd  just  take  no  notice,  and  not  call  her 
money  in ;  as  it 's  not  so  much  for  one  sister  to  ask  of  another ; 
time  'ud  mend  things,  and  Tulliver  'ud  forget  all  about  it,  and 
they  'd  be  friends  again." 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  89 

Mrs.  Tulliver,  you  perceive,  was  not  aware  of  her  husband's 
irrevocable  determination  to  pay  in  the  five  hundred  pounds ; 
at  least  such  a  determination  exceeded  her  powers  of  belief. 

"Well,  Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  mournfully,  "/don't  want 
to  help  you  011  to  ruin.  I  won't  be  behindhand  i'  doing  you  a 
good  turn,  if  it  is  to  be  done.  And  I  don't  like  it  said  among 
acquaintance  as  we  've  got  quarrels  in  the  family.  I  shall  tell 
Jane  that;  and  I  don't  mind  driving  to  Jane's  to-morrow,  if 
Pullet  does  n't  mind.  What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Pullet  ?  " 

"  I  've  no  objections,"  said  Mr.  Pullet,  who  was  perfectly 
contented  with  any  course  the  quarrel  might  take,  so  that  Mr. 
Tulliver  did  not  apply  to  him  for  money.  Mr.  Pullet  was 
nervous  about  his  investments,  and  did  not  see  how  a  man 
could  have  any  security  for  his  money  unless  he  turned  it  into 
land. 

After  a  little  further  discussion  as  to  whether  it  would  not 
be  better  for  Mrs.  Tulliver  to  accompany  them  on  a  visit  to 
sister  Glegg,  Mrs.  Pullet,  observing  that  it  was  tea-time, 
turned  to  reach  from  a  drawer  a  delicate  damask  napkin,  which 
she  pinned  before  her  in  the  fashion  of  an  apron.  The  door 
did,  in  fact,  soon  open,  but  instead  of  the  tea-tray,  Sally  intro- 
duced an  object  so  startling  that  both  Mrs.  Pullet  and  Mrs. 
Tulliver  gave  a  scream,  causing  uncle  Pullet  to  swallow  his 
lozenge  —  for  the  fifth  time  in  his  life,  as  he  afterwards  noted. 


CHAPTEE  X. 

MAGGIE    BEHAVES    WORSE    THAN    SHE    EXPECTED. 

THE  startling  object  which  thus  made  an  epoch  for  uncle 
Pullet  was  no  other  than  little  Lucy,  with  one  side  of  her 
person,  from  her  small  foot  to  her  bonnet-crown,  wet  and  dis- 
coloured with  mud,  holding  out  two  tiny  blackened  hands,  and 
making  a  very  piteous  face.  To  account  for  this  unprecedented 
apparition  in  aunt  Pullet's  parlour,  we  must  return  to  the  mo- 
ment when  the  three  children  went  to  play  out  of  doors,  and 
the  small  demons  who  had  taken  possession  of  Maggie's  soul  at 
an  early  period  of  the  day  had  returned  in  all  the  greater  force 
after  a  temporary  absence.  All  the  disagreeable  recollections  of 
the  morning  were  thick  upon  her,  when  Tom,  whose  displeasure 


90  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

towards  her  had  been  considerably  refreshed  by  her  foolish 
trick  of  causing  him  to  upset  his  cowslip  wine,  said,  "  Here, 
Lucy,  you  come  along  with  me,"  and  walked  off  to  the  area 
where  the  toads  were,  as  if  there  were  no  Maggie  in  existence. 
Seeing  this,  Maggie  lingered  at  a  distance,  looking  like  a  small 
Medusa  with  her  snakes  cropped.  Lucy  was  naturally  pleased 
that  cousin  Tom  was  so  good  to  her,  and  it  was  very  amusing  to 
see  him  tickling  a  fat  toad  with  a  piece  of  string  when  the  toad 
was  safe  down  the  area,  with  an  iron  grating  over  him.  Still 
Lucy  wished  Maggie  to  enjoy  the  spectacle  also,  especially  as 
she  would  doubtless  tind  a  name  for  the  toad,  and  say  what  had 
been  his  past  history  ;  for  Lucy  hud  a  delighted  semi-belief  in 
Maggie's  stories  about  the  live  things  they  came  upon  by  acci- 
dent, —  how  Mrs.  Earwig  had  a  wash  at  home,  and  one  of  her 
children  had  fallen  into  the  hot  copper,  for  which  reason  she 
was  running  so  fast  to  fetch  the  doctor.  Tom  had  a  profound 
contempt  for  this  nonsense  of  Maggie's,  smashing  the  earwig 
at  once  as  a  superfluous  yet  easy  means  of  proving  the  entire 
unreality  of  such  a  story ;  but  Lucy,  for  the  life  of  her,  could 
not  help  fancying  there  was  something  in  it,  and  at  all  events 
thought  it  was  very  pretty  make-believe.  So  now  the  desire 
to  know  the  history  of  a  very  portly  toad,  added  to  her  habitual 
affectionateness,  made  her  run  back  to  Maggie  and  say,  "  Oh, 
there  is  such  a  big,  funny  toad,  Maggie !  Do  come  and  see  ! " 

Maggie  said  nothing,  but  turned  away  from  her  with  a 
deeper  frown.  As  long  as  Tom  seemed  to  prefer  Lucy  to 
her,  Lucy  made  part  of  his  unkindness.  Maggie  would  have 
thought  a  little  while  ago  that  she  could  never  be  cross 
with  pretty  little  Lucy,  any  more  than  she  could  be  cruel 
to  a  little  white  mouse ;  but  then,  Tom  had  always  been 
quite  indifferent  to  Lucy  before,  and  it  had  been  left  to 
Maggie  to  pet  and  make  much  of  her.  As  it  was,  she  was 
actually  beginning  to  think  that  she  should  like  to  make  Lucy 
cry  by  slapping  or  pinching  her,  especially  as  it  might  v.  \ 
Tom,  whom  it  was  of  no  use  to  slap,  even  if  she  dam!, 
because  he  didn't  mind  it.  And  if  Lucy  hadn't  been  tin T 
Maggie  was  sure  he  would  have  got  friends  with  IK  i 
sooner. 

Tickling  a  fat  toad  who  is  not  highly  sensitive  is  an  amuse- 
ment that  it  is  possible  to  exhaust,  and  Tom  by-and-by  began 
to  look  round  for  some  other  mode  of  passing  the  time.  But 
in  so  prim  a  garden,  where  they  were  not  to  go  off  the  paved 
walks,  there  was  not  a  great  choice  of  sport.  The  only  great 
pleasure  such  a  restriction  suggested  was  the  pleasure  of 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  91 

breaking  it,  and  Toin  began  to  meditate  an  insurrectionary 
visit  to  the  pond,  about  a  field's  length  beyond  the  garden. 

"  I  say,  Lucy,"  he  began,  nodding  his  head  up  and  down 
with  great  significance,  as  he  coiled  up  his  string  again, 
"  what  do  you  think  I  mean  to  do  ?  " 

"  What,  Tom  ?  "  said  Lucy,  with  curiosity. 

"  I  mean  to  go  to  the  pond  and  look  at  the  pike.  You  may 
go  with  me  if  you  like,"  said  the  young  sultan. 

"  Oh,  Tom,  dare  you  ?  "  said  Lucy.  "  Aunt  said  we  must  n't 
go  out  of  the  garden." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  go  out  at  the  other  end  of  the  garden,"  said 
Tom.  "  Nobody  'nil  see  us.  Besides,  I  don't  care  if  they  do, 
—  I  '11  run  off  home." 

"  But  /  could  n't  run,"  said  Lucy,  who  had  never  before  been 
exposed  to  such  severe  temptation. 

"  Oh,  never  mind ;  they  won't  be  cross  with  you,"  said  Tom. 
"  You  say  I  took  you." 

Tom  walked  along,  and  Lucy  trotted  by  his  side,  timidly 
enjoying  the  rare  treat  of  doing  something  naughty, — ex- 
cited also  by  the  mention  of  that  celebrity,  the  pike,  about 
which  she  was  quite  uncertain  whether  it  was  a  fish  or  a  fowl. 
Maggie  saw  them  leaving  the  garden,  and  could  not  resist  the 
impulse  to  follow.  Anger  and  jealousy  can  no  more  bear 
to  lose  sight  of  their  objects  than  love,  and  that  Tom  and 
Lucy  should  do  or  see  anything  of  which  she  was  ignorant 
would  have  been  an  intolerable  idea  to  Maggie.  So  she  kept 
a  few  yards  behind  them,  unobserved  by  Tom,  who  was  pres- 
ently absorbed  in  watching  for  the  pike,  —  a  highly  interest- 
ing monster ;  he  was  said  to  be  so  very  old,  so  very  large,  and 
to  have  such  a  remarkable  appetite.  The  pike,  like  other 
celebrities,  did  not  show  when  he  was  watched  for,  but  Tom 
caught  sight  of  something  in  rapid  movement  in  the  water, 
which  attracted  him  to  another  spot  on  the  brink  of  the 
pond. 

"  Here,  Lucy  ! "  he  said  in  a  loud  whisper,  "  come  here  ! 
take  care  !  keep  on  the  grass  !  —  don't  step  where  the  cows 
have  been  !  "  he  added,  pointing  to  a  peninsula  of  dry  grass, 
with  trodden  mud  on  each  side  of  it ;  for  Tom's  contemp- 
tuous conception  of  a  girl  included  the  attribute  of  being 
unfit  to  walk  in  dirty  places. 

Lucy  came  carefully  as  she  was  bidden,  and  bent  down 
to  look  at  what  seemed  a  golden  arrow-head  darting  through 
the  water.  It  was  a  water-snake,  Tom  told  her ;  and  Lucy  at 
last  could  see  the  serpentine  wave  of  its  body,  very  much  won- 


92  THE   MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

dering  that  a  snake  could  swim.  Maggie  had  drawn  nearpi 
and  nearer ;  she  must  see  it  too,  though  it  was  bitter  to  her, 
like  everything  else,  since  Tom  did  not  care  about  her  seeing 
it.  At  last  she  was  close  by  Lucy ;  and  Tom,  who  had  been 
aware  of  her  approach,  but  would  not  notice  it  till  he  was 
obliged,  turned  round  and  said,  — 

"  Now,  get  away,  Maggie  ;  there  's  no  room  for  you  on  the 
grass  here.  Nobody  asked  you  to  come." 

There  were  passions  at  war  in  Maggie  at  that  moment  to 
have  made  a  tragedy,  if  tragedies  were  made  by  passion  only  ; 
but  the  essential  ™  //.e'yeflos  which  was  present  in  the  passion 
was  wanting  to  the  action ;  the  utmost  Maggie  could  do,  with 
a  tierce  thrust  of  her  small  brown  arm,  was  to  push  poor  little 
pink-and-white  Lucy  into  the  cow-trodden  mud. 

Then  Tom  could  not  restrain  himself,  and  gave  Maggie  two 
smart  slaps  on  the  arm  as  he  ran  to  pick  up  Lucy,  who  lay 
crying  helplessly.  Maggie  retreated  to  the  roots  of  a  tree  a 
few  yards  off,  and  looked  on  impenitently.  Usually  her 
repentance  came  quickly  after  one  rash  deed,  but  now  Tom 
and  Lucy  had  made  her  so  miserable,  she  was  glad  to  spoil 
their  happiness, — glad  to  make  everybody  uncomfortable. 
Why  should  she  be  sorry  ?  Tom  was  very  slow  to  forgive 
her,  however  sorry  she  might  have  been. 

"  I  shall  tell  mother,  you  know,  Miss  Mag,"  said  Tom,  loudly 
and  emphatically,  as  soon  as  Lucy  was  up  and  ready  to  walk 
away.  It  was  not  Tom's  practice  to  "tell,"  but  here  justice 
clearly  demanded  that  Maggie  should  be  visited  with  the 
utmost  punishment ;  not  that  Tom  had  learned  to  put  his 
views  in  that  abstract  form;  he  never  mentioned  "justice," 
and  had  no  idea  that  his  desire  to  punish  might  be  called  by 
that  fine  name.  Lucy  was  too  entirely  absorbed  by  the  evil 
that  had  befallen  her,  —  the  spoiling  of  her  pretty  best 
clothes,  and  the  discomfort  of  being  wet  and  dirty,  —  to 
think  much  of  the  cause,  which  was  entirely  mysterious  to 
her.  She  could  never  have  guessed  what  she  had  done 
to  make  Maggie  angry  with  her ;  but  she  felt  that  Maggie  was 
very  unkind  and  disagreeable,  and  made  no  magnanimous  en- 
treaties to  Tom  that  he  would  not  "  tell,"  only  running  along 
by  his  side  and  crying  piteously,  while  Maggie  sat  on  the 
roots  of  the  tree  and  looked  after  them  with  her  small  Me- 
dusa face. 

"  Sally,"  said  Tom,  when  they  reached  the  kitchen  door,  and 
Sally  looked  at  them  in  speechless  amaze,  with  a  piece  of  bread- 
and-butter  in  her  mouth  and  a  toasting-fork  in  her  hand,  — 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  93 

"  Sally,  tell  mother  it  was  Maggie  pushed  Lucy  into  the 
mud." 

"  But  Lors  ha'  massy,  how  did  you  get  near  such  mud  as 
that  ?  "  said  Sally,  making  a  wry  face,  as  she  stooped  down 
and  examined  the  corpus  delicti. 

Tom's  imagination  had  not  been  rapid  and  capacious  enough 
to  include  this  question  among  the  foreseen  consequences,  bxit 
it  was  no  sooner  put  than  he  foresaw  whither  it  tended,  and 
that  Maggie  would  not  be  considered  the  only  culprit  in  the 
case.  He  walked  quietly  away  from  the  kitchen  door,  leaving 
Sally  to  that  pleasure  of  guessing  which  active  minds  notori- 
ously prefer  to  ready-made  knowledge. 

Sally,  as  you  are  aware,  lost  no  time  in  presenting  Lucy  at 
the  parlour  door,  for  to  have  so  dirty  an  object  introduced  into 
the  house  at  Garum  Firs  was  too  great  a  weight  to  be  sus- 
tained by  a  single  mind. 

"  Goodness  gracious  !  "  aunt  Pullet  exclaimed,  after  prelud- 
ing by  an  inarticulate  scream  ;  "  keep  her  at  the  door,  Sally  ! 
Don't  bring  her  off  the  oil-cloth,  whatever  you  do." 

"  Why,  she  's  tumbled  into  some  nasty  mud,"  said  Mrs.  Tul- 
liver,  going  up  to  Lucy  to  examine  into  the  amount  of  damage 
to  clothes  for  which  she  felt  herself  responsible  to  her  sister 
Deane. 

"  If  you  please,  'um,  it  was  Miss  Maggie  as  pushed  her  in," 
said  Sally ;  "  Master  Tom  's  been  and  said  so,  and  they  must 
ha'  been  to  the  pond,  for  it 's  only  there  they  could  ha'  got 
into  such  dirt." 

"  There  it  is,  Bessy  ;  it 's  what  I  've  been  telling  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Pullet,  in  a  tone  of  prophetic  sadness  ;  "  it 's  your  chil- 
dren, —  there  's  no  knowing  what  they  '11  come  to." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  mute,  feeling  herself  a  truly  wretched 
mother.  As  usual,  the  thought  pressed  upon  her  that  people 
would  think  she  had  done  something  wicked  to  deserve  her 
maternal  troubles,  while  Mrs.  Pullet  began  to  give  elaborate 
directions  to  Sally  how  to  guard  the  premises  from  serious 
injury  in  the  course  of  removing  the  dirt.  Meantime  tea  was 
to  be  brought  in  by  the  cook,  and  the  two  naughty  children 
were  to  have  theirs  in  an  ignominious  manner  in  the  kitchen. 
Mrs.  Tulliver  went  out  to  speak  to  these  naughty  children, 
supposing  them  to  be  close  at  hand ;  but  it  was  not  until  after 
some  search  that  she  found  Tom  leaning  with  rather  a  hard- 
ened, careless  air  against  the  white  paling  of  the  poultry-yard, 
and  lowering  his  piece  of  string  on  the  other  side  as  a  means 
of  exasperating  the  turkey-cock. 


94  THE   MILL    ON    THE   FLOSS. 

"  Tom,  you  naughty  boy,  where  's  your  sister  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  in  a  distressed  voice. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom ;  his  eagerness  for  justice  on 
Maggie  had  diminished  since  he  had  seen  clearly  that  it 
could  hardly  be  brought  about  without  the  injustice  of  some 
blame  on  his  own  conduct. 

"  Why.  where  did  you  leave  her  ?  "  said  his  mother,  looking 
round. 

"  Sitting  under  the  tree,  against  the  pond,"  said  Tom,  ap 
parently  indifferent  to  everything  but  the  string  and  the- 
turkey-cock. 

"  Then  go  and  fetch  her  in  this  minute,  you  naughty  boy. 
And  how  could  you  think  o'  going  to  the  pond,  and  taking 
your  sister  where  there  was  dirt?  You  know  she'll  do 
mischief  if  there  's  mischief  to  be  done." 

It  was  Mrs.  Tulliver's  way,  if  she  blamed  Tom,  to  refer  his 
misdemeanour,  somehow  or  other,  to  Maggie. 

The  idea  of  Maggie  sitting  alone  by  the  pond  roused  an 
habitual  fear  in  Mrs.  Tulliver's  mind,  and  she  mounted  the 
horseblock  to  satisfy  herself  by  a  sight  of  that  fatal  child, 
while  Tom  walked  —  not  very  quickly —  on  his  way  towards  her. 

"  They're  such  children  for  the  water,  mine  are,"  she  said 
aloud,  without  reflecting  that  there  was  no  one  to  hear  her ; 
"  they  '11  be  brought  in  dead  and  drownded  some  day.  I  wish 
that  river  was  far  enough." 

But  when  she  not  only  failed  to  discern  Maggie,  but  pres- 
ently saw  Tom  returning  from  the  pool  alone,  this  hovering 
fear  entered  and  took  complete  possession  of  her,  and  she 
hurried  to  meet  him. 

"  Maggie 's  nowhere  about  the  pond,  mother,"  said  Tom ; 
"she's  gone  away." 

You  may  conceive  the  terrified  search  for  Maggie,  and  the 
difficulty  of  convincing  her  molhcr  that  she  was  not  in  the 
pond.  Mrs.  Pullet  observed  that  the  child  might  come  to 
a  worse  end  if  she  lived,  there  was  no  knowing ;  and  Mr. 
Pullet,  confused  and  overwhelmed  by  this  revolutionary  aspect 
of  things,  —  the  tea  deferred  and  the  poultry  alarmed  by  the 
unusual  running  to  and  fro, — took  up  his  spud  as  an  instru- 
ment of  search,  and  reached  down  a  key  to  unlock  the  goose- 
pen,  as  a  likely  place  for  Maggie  to  lie  concealed  in. 

Tom,  after  a  while,  started  the  idea  that  Maggie  was  gone 
home  (without  thinking  it  necessary  to  state  that  it  was  what 
he  should  have  done  himself  under  the  circumstances),  and 
the  suggestion  was  seized  as  a  comfort  by  his  mother. 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  95 

"  Sister,  for  goodness'  sake  let  5em  put  the  horse  in  the 
carriage  and  take  me  home;  we  shall  perhaps  find  her  on 
the  road.  Lucy  can't  walk  in  her  dirty  clothes,"  she  said, 
looking  at  that  innocent  victim,  who  was  wrapped  up  in  a 
shawl,  and  sitting  with  naked  feet  on  the  sofa. 

Aunt  Pullet  was  quite  willing  to  take  the  shortest  means 
of  restoring  her  premises  to  order  and  quiet,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  in  the  chaise,  looking  anxiously 
at  the  most  distant  point  before  her.  What  the  father  would 
say  if  Maggie  was  lost,  was  a  question  that  predominated 
over  every  other. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

MAGGIE   TRIES    TO    RUN    AWAY    FROM    HER   SHADOW. 

MAGGIE'S  intentions,  as  usual,  were  on  a  larger  scale  than 
Tom  had  imagined.  The  resolution  that  gathered  in  her 
mind,  after  Tom  and  Lucy  had  walked  away,  was  not  so 
simple  as  that  of  going  home.  No !  she  would  run  away  and 
go  to  the  gypsies,  and  Tom  should  never  see  her  any  more. 
That  was  by  no  means  a  new  idea  to  Maggie ;  she  had  been 
so  often  told  she  was  like  a  gypsy,  and  "  half  wild,"  that  when 
she  was  miserable  it  seemed  to  her  the  only  way  of  escaping 
opprobrium,  and  being  entirely  in  harmony  with  circum- 
stances, would  be  to  live  in  a  little  brown  tent  on  the  com- 
mons ;  the  gypsies,  she  considered,  would  gladly  receive  her, 
and  pay  her  much  respect  on  account  of  her  superior  knowl- 
edge. She  had  once  mentioned  her  views  on  this  point  to 
Tom,  and  suggested  that  he  should  stain  his  face  brown,  and 
they  should  run  away  together ;  but  Tom  rejected  the  scheme 
with  contempt,  observing  that  gypsies  were  thieves,  and 
hardly  got  anything  to  eat,  and  had  nothing  to  drive  but  a 
donkey.  To-day,  however,  Maggie  thought  her  misery  had 
reached  a  pitch  at  which  gypsydom  was  her  only  refuge,  and 
she  rose  from  her  seat  on  the  roots  of  the  tree  with  the  sense 
that  this  was  a  great  crisis  in  her  life  ;  she  would  run  straight 
away  till  she  came  to  Dunlow  Common,  where  there  would 
certainly  be  gypsies;  and  cruel  Tom,  and  the  rest  of  her 
relations  who  found  fault  with  her,  should  never  see  her  any 
more.  She  thought  of  her  father  as  she  ran  along,  but  she 


96  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

reconciled  herself  to  the  idea  of  parting  with  him,  by  deter- 
mining that  she  would  secretly  send  him  a  letter  by  a  small 
gypsy,  who  would  run  away  without  telling  where  she  was, 
and  just  let  him  know  that  she  was  well  and  happy,  and 
always  loved  him  very  much. 

Maggie  soon  got  out  of  breath  with  running,  but  by  the 
time  Tom  got  to  the  pond  again  she  was  at  the  distance  of 
three  long  fields,  and  was  on  the  edge  of  the  lane  leading  to 
the  highroad.  She  stopped  to  pant  a  little,  reflecting  that  run- 
ning away  was  not  a  pleasant  thing  until  one  had  got  quite  to 
the  common  where  the  gypsies  were,  but  her  resolution  had 
not  abated ;  she  presently  passed  through  the  gate  into  the 
lane,  not  knowing  where  it  would  lead  her,  for  it  was  not  this 
way  that  they  came  from  Porlcote  Mill  to  Garum  Firs,  and 
she  felt  all  the  safer  for  that,  because  there  was  no  chance  of 
her  being  overtaken.  But  she  was  soon  aware,  not  without 
trembling,  that  there  were  two  men  coming  along  the  lane 
in  front  of  her ;  she  had  not  thought  of  meeting  strangers, 
she  had  been  too  much  occupied  with  the  idea  of  her  friends 
coming  after  her.  The  formidable  strangers  were  two  shabby- 
looking  men  with  flushed  faces,  one  of  them  carrying  a  bundle 
on  a  stick  over  his  shoulder  ;  but  to  her  surprise,  while  she  was 
dreading  their  disapprobation  as  ;i  runaway,  the  man  with  the 
bundle  stopped,  and  in  a  halt-whining,  hall-coaxing  tone  asked 
her  if  she  had  a  copper  to  give  a  poor  man.  Maggie  had  a 
sixpence  in  her  pocket,  —  her  tmcle  Glegg's  present, —  which 
she  immediately  drew  out  and  g;ive  this  poor  man  with  a 
polite  smile,  hoping  he  would  feel  very  kindly  towards  her  as 
a  generous  person.  "That's  the  only  money  I've  got,"  she 
said  apologetically.  "Thank  you,  little  miss,"  said  the  man,  in 
a  less  respectful  and  grateful  tone  than  Maggie  anticipated,  and 
she  even  observed  that  he  smiled  and  winked  at  his  compan- 
ion. She  walked  on  hurriedly,  but  was  aware  that  the  two 
men  were  standing  still,  probably  to  look  alter  her,  and  she 
presently  heard  them  laughing  loudly.  Suddenly  it  occurred 
to  her  that  they  might  think  she  was  an  idiot;  Torn  had 
that  her  cropped  hair  made  her  look  like  an  idiot,  and  it  was 
too  painful  an  idea  to  be  readily  forgotten.  Besides,  she  had 
no  sleeves  on,  —  only  a  cape  and  a  bonnet.  It  was  clear  that 
she  was  not  likely  to  make  a  favourable  impression  on  pas- 
sengers, and  she  thought  she  would  turn  into  the  fields  again, 
but  not  on  the  same  side  of  the  lane  as  before,  lest  they  should 
still  be  uncle  Pullet's  fields.  She  turned  through  the  first 
gate  that  was  not  locked,  and  felt  a  delightful  sense  of  privacy 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  97 

in  creeping  along  by  the  hedgerows,  after  her  recent  humiliat- 
ing encounter.  She  was  used  to  wandering  about  the  fields 
by  herself,  and  was  less  timid  there  thaa  on  the  highroad. 
Sometimes  she  had  to  climb  over  high  gates,  but  that  was  a 
small  evil ;  she  was  getting  out  of  reach  very  fast,  and  she 
should  probably  soon  come  within  sight  of  Dunlow  Common, 
or  at  least  of  some  other  common,  for  she  had  heard  her 
father  say  that  you  couldu  't  go  very  far  without  coming  to  r> 
common.  She  hoped  so,  for  she  was  getting  rather  tired 
and  hungry,  and  until  she  reached  the  gypsies  there  was 
no  definite  prospect  of  bread-and-butter.  It  was  still  broad 
daylight,  for  aunt  Pullet,  retaining  the  early  habits  of  the 
Dodson  family,  took  tea  at  half-past  four  by  the  sun,  and  at 
five  by  the  kitchen  clock ;  so,  though  it  was  nearly  an  hour 
since  Maggie  started,  there  was  no  gathering  gloom  on  the 
fields  to  remind  her  that  the  night  would  come.  Still,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  walking  a  very  great  distance 
indeed,  and  it  was  really  surprising  that  the  common  did  not 
come  within  sight.  Hitherto  she  had  been  in  the  rich  parish 
of  Garum,  where  there  was  a  great  deal  of  pasture-land,  and 
she  had  only  seen  one  labourer  at  a  distance.  That  was  fortu- 
nate in  some  respects,  as  labourers  might  be  too  ignorant  to 
understand  the  propriety  of  her  wanting  to  go  to  Dunlow 
Common ;  yet  it  would  have  been  better  if  she  could  have 
met  some  one  who  would  tell  her  the  way  without  wanting  to 
know  anything  about  her  private  business.  At  last,  however, 
the  green  fields  came  to  an  end,  and  Maggie  found  herself 
looking  through  the  bars  of  a  gate  into  a  lane  with  a  wide 
margin  of  grass  on  each  side  of  it.  She  had  never  seen  such 
a  wide  lane  before,  and,  Avithout  her  knowing  why,  it  gave  her 
the  impression  that  the  common  could  not  be  far  off ;  perhaps 
it  was  because  she  saw  a  donkey  with  a  log  to  his  foot  feeding 
on  the  grassy  margin,  for  she  had  seen  a  donkey  with  that 
pitiable  encumbrance  on  Dunlow  Common  when  she  ha,d  been 
across  it  in  her  father's  gig.  She  crept  through  the  bars  of 
the  gate  and  walked  on  with  new  spirit,  though  not  without 
haunting  images  of  Apollyon,  and  a  highwayman  with  a  pis- 
tol, and  a  blinking  dwarf  in  yellow  with  a  mouth  from  ear  to 
ear,  and  other  miscellaneous  dangers.  For  poor  little  Maggie 
had  at  once  the  timidity  of  an  active  imagination  and  the 
daring  that  comes  from  overmastering  impulse.  She  had 
rushed  into  the  adventure  of  seeking  her  unknown  kindred, 
the  gypsies :  and  now  she  was  in  uhis  strange  lane,  she  hardly 
dared  look  on  one  side  of  her,  lest  she  should  see  the  diabol- 


98  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

ical  blacksmith  in  his  leathern  apron  grinning  at  her  with 
arms  akimbo.  It  was  not  without  a  leaping  of  the  heart  that 
she  caught  sight  of  a  small  pair  of  bare  legs  sticking  up,  feet 
uppermost,  by  the  side  of  a  hillock ;  they  seemed  something 
hideously  preternatural,  —  a  diabolical  kind  of  fungus ;  for 
she  was  too  much  agitated  at  the  first  glance  to  see  the  ragged 
clothes  and  the  dark  shaggy  head  attached  to  them.  It  was  a 
boy  asleep,  and  Maggie  trotted  along  faster  and  more  lightly, 
lest  she  should  wake  him  ;  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  he  was 
one  of  her  friends  the  gypsies,  who  in  all  probability  would 
have  very  genial  manners.  But  the  fact  was  so,  for  at  the 
next  bend  in  the  lane  Maggie  actually  saw  the  little  semi- 
circular black  tent  with  the  blue  smoke  rising  before  it,  which 
was  to  be  her  refuge  from  all  the  blighting  obloquy  that  had 
pursued  her  in  civilised  life.  She  even  saw  a  tall  female 
figure  by  the  column  of  smoke,  doubtless  the  gypsy-mother, 
who  provided  the  tea  and  other  groceries  j  it  was  astonishing 
to  herself  that  she  did  not  feel  more  delighted.  But  it  was 
startling  to  find  the  gypsies  in  a  lane,  after  all,  and  not  on  a 
common;  indeed,  it  was  rather  disappointing;  for  a  myste- 
rious illimitable  common,  where  there  were  sand-pits  to  hide  in, 
and  one  was  out  of  everybody's  reach,  had  always  made  part 
of  Maggie's  picture  of  gypsy  life.  She  went  on,  however, 
and  thought  with  some  comfort  that  gypsies  most  likely  knew 
nothing  about  idiots,  so  there  was  no  danger  of  their  falling 
into  the  mistake  of  setting  her  down  at  the  first  glance  as  an 
idiot.  It  was  plain  she  had  attracted  attention ;  for  the  tall 
figure,  who  proved  to  be  a  young  woman  with  a  baby  on  her 
arm,  walked  slowly  to  meet  her.  Maggie  looked  up  in  the 
new  face  rather  tremblingly  as  it  approached,  ;md  was  reas- 
sured by  the  thought  that  her  aunt  Pullet  and  the  rest  were 
right  when  they  called  her  a  gypsy ;  for  this  face,  with  the 
bright  dark  eyes  and  the  long  hair,  was  really  something  like 
what  she  used  to  see  in  the  glass  before  she  cut  her  hair  off. 

"  My  little  lady,  where  are  you  going  to  ?  "  the  gypsy  said, 
in  a  tone  of  coaxing  deference. 

It  was  delightful,  and  just  what  Maggie  expected;  the 
gypsies  saw  at  once  that  she  was  a  little  lady,  and  were  pre- 
pared to  treat  her  accordingly. 

"Not  any  farther,"  said  Maggie,  feeling  as  if  she  were 
saying  what  she  had  rehearsed  in  a  dream.  "  I  'm  come  to 
stay  with  you,  please." 

"  That 's  pretty ;  come,  then.  Why,  what  a  nice  little  lady 
you  are,  to  be  sure  ! "  said  the  gypsy,  taking  her  by  the  hand. 


BO Y  AND   GIRL.  99 

Maggie  thought  her  very  agreeable,  but  wished  she  had  not 
been  so  dirty. 

There  was  quite  a  group  round  the  fire  when  they  reached 
it.  An  old  gypsy  woman  was  seated  on  the  ground  nursing 
her  knees,  and  occasionally  poking  a  skewer  into  the  round 
kettle  that  sent  forth  an  odorous  steam ;  two  small  shock- 
headed  children  were  lying  prone  and  resting  on  their  elbows, 
something  like  small  sphinxes;  and  a  placid  donkey  was 
bending  his  head  over  a  tall  girl,  who,  lying  on  her  back,  was 
scratching  his  nose  and  indulging  him  with  a  bite  of  excellent 
stolen  hay.  The  slanting  sunlight  fell  kindly  upon  them,  and 
the  scene  was  really  very  pretty  and  comfortable,  Maggie 
thought,  only  she  hoped  they  would  soon  set  out  the  tea-cups. 
Everything  would  be  quite  charming  when  she  had  taught  the 
gypsies  to  use  a  washing-basin,  and  to  feel  an  interest  in 
books.  It  was  a  little  confusing,  though,  that  the  young 
woman  began  to  speak  to  the  old  one  in  a  language  which 
Maggie  did  not  understand,  while  the  tall  girl,  who  was  feed- 
ing the  donkey,  sat  up  and  stared  at  her  without  offering  any 
salutation.  At  last  the  old  woman  said,  — 

"  What !  my  pretty  lady,  are  you  come  to  stay  with  us  ? 
Sit  ye  down  and  tell  us  where  you  come  from." 

It  was  just  like  a  story ;  Maggie  liked  to  be  called  pretty 
lady  and  treated  in  this  way.  She  sat  down  and  said,  — 

"  I  'm  come  from  home  because  I  'm  unhappy,  and  I  mean 
to  be  a  gypsy.  I  '11  live  with  you  if  you  like,  and  I  can  teach 
you  a  great  many  things." 

"  Such  a  clever  little  lady,"  said  the  woman  with  the  baby, 
sitting  down  by  Maggie,  and  allowing  baby  to  crawl ;  "  and 
such  a  pretty  bonnet  and  frock,"  she  added,  taking  off  Maggie's 
bonnet  and  looking  at  it  while  she  made  an  observation  to  the 
old  woman,  in  the  unknown  language.  The  tall  girl  snatched 
the  bonnet  and  put  it  on  her  own  head  hind-foremost  with  a 
grin ;  but  Maggie  was  determined  not  to  show  any  weakness 
on  this  subject,  as  if  she  were  susceptible  about  her  bonnet. 

"  I  don't  want  to  wear  a  bonnet,"  she  said ;  "  I  'd  rather  wear 
a  red  handkerchief,  like  yours  "  (looking  at  her  friend  by  her 
side).  "  My  hair  was  quite  long  till  yesterday,  when  I  cut  it  off ; 
but  I  daresay  it  will  grow  again  very  soon,"  she  added  apolo- 
getically, thinking  it  probable  the  gj^psies  had  a  strong  prejudice 
in  favour  of  long  hair.  And  Maggie  had  forgotten  even  her  hun- 
ger at  that  moment  in  the  desire  to  conciliate  gypsy  opinion. 

"  Oh,  what  a  nice  little  lady  !  —  and  rich,  I  'm  sure,"  said  the 
old  woman.  "  Did  n't  you  live  in  a  beautiful  house  at  home  ?  " 


100  THE   MILL    O.V    THE   FLOSS. 

"  Yes,  my  home  is  pretty,  and  I  'm  very  fond  of  the  river, 
where  we  go  fishing,  but  I  'in  often  very  unhappy.  I  should 
have  liked  to  bring  my  books  with  me,  but  I  came  away  in  a 
hurry,  you  know.  But  I  can  tell  you  almost  everything  there 
is  in  my  books,  I  've  read  them  so  many  times,  and  that  will 
amuse  you.  And  I  can  tell  you  something  about  Geography 
too,  —  that's  about  the  world  we  live  in,  —  very  useful  and  in- 
teresting. Did  you  ever  hear  about  Columbus  ?  " 

Maggie's  eyes  had  begun  to  sparkle  and  her  cheeks  to  flush,  — 
she  was  really  beginning  to  instruct  the  gypsies,  and  gaining 
great  influence  over  them.  The  gypsies  themselves  were  not 
without  amazement  at  this  talk,  though  their  attention  was 
divided  by  the  contents  of  Maggie's  pocket,  which  the  friend  at 
her  right  hand  had  by  this  time  emptied  without  attracting 
her  notice. 

"Is  that  where  you  live,  my  little  lady?"  said  the  old 
woman,  at  the  mention  of  Columbus. 

"  Oh,  no !  "  said  Maggie,  with  some  pity  ;  "  Columbus  was  a 
very  wonderful  man,  who  found  out  half  the  world,  and  they 
put  chains  on  him  and  treated  him  very  badly,  you  know ;  it 's 
iu  my  Catechism  of  Geography,  but  perhaps  it 's  rather  too  long 
to  tell  before  tea  —  I  want  my  tea  so." 

The  last  words  burst  from  Maggie,  in  spite  of  herself, 
with  a  sudden  drop  from  patronising  instruction  to  simple 
peevishness. 

"  Why,  she 's  hungry,  poor  little  lady,"  said  the  younger 
woman.  "  Give  her  some  o'  the  cold  victual.  You  've  been 
walking  a  good  way,  I  '11  be  bound,  my  dear.  Where  's  your 
home  ?  " 

"It's  Dorlcote  Mill,  a  good  way  off,"  said  Maggie.  "31y 
father  is  Mr.  Tulliver,  but  we  must  n't  let  him  know  where  I 
am,  else  he  '11  fetch  me  home  again.  Where  does  the  queen  of 
the  gypsies  live  ?  " 

"  What !  do  you  want  to  go  to  her,  my  little  lady  ?  "  said 
the  younger  woman.  The  tall  girl  meanwhile  was  constantly 
staring  at  Maggie  and  grinning.  Her  manners  were  certainly 
not  agreeable. 

"No,"  said  Maggie,  "I  'm  only  thinking  that  if  she  is  n't  a 
very  good  queen  you  might  be  glad  when  she  died,  and  you 
could  choose  another.  If  I  was  a  queen,  I  'd  be  a  very  good 
queen,  and  kind  to  everybody." 

"  Here  's  a  bit  o'  nice  victual,  then,"  said  the  old  woman, 
handing  to  Maggie  a  lump  of  dry  bread,  which  she  had  taken 
from  a  bag  of  scraps,  and  a  piece  of  cold  bacon. 


BO Y  AND   GIRL.  101 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  looking  at  the  food  without  tak- 
ing it ;  "  but  will  you  give  me  some  bread-and-butter  and  tea 
instead  ?  I  don;t  like  bacon." 

"  We  've  got  no  tea  nor  butter,"  said  the  old  woman,  with 
something  like  a  scowl,  as  if  she  were  getting  tired  of  coaxing. 

"  Oh,  a  little  bread  and  treacle  would  do,"  said  Maggie. 

"  We  han't  got  no  treacle,"  said  the  old  woman,  crossly, 
whereupon  there  followed  a  sharp  dialogue  between  the  two 
women  in  their  unknown  tongue,  and  one  of  the  small  sphinxes 
snatched  at  the  bread-and-bacon,  and  began  to  eat  it.  At  this 
moment  the  tall  girl,  who  had  gone  a  few  yards  off,  came  back, 
and  said  something  which  produced  a  strong  effect.  The  old 
woman,  seeming  to  forget  Maggie's  hunger,  poked  the  skewer 
into  the  pot  with  new  vigour,  and  the  younger  crept  under  the 
tent,  and  reached  out  some  platters  and  spoons.  Maggie  trem- 
bled a  little,  and  was  afraid  the  tears  would  come  into  her  eyes. 
Meanwhile  the  tall  girl  gave  a  shrill  cry,  and  presently  came- 
running  up  the  boy  whom  Maggie  had  passed  as  he  was  sleep- 
ing, —  a  rough  urchin  about  the  age  of  Tom.  He  stared  at 
Maggie,  and  there  ensued  much  incomprehensible  chattering. 
She  felt  very  lonely,  and  was  quite  sure  she  should  begin  to 
cry  before  long ;  the  gypsies  did  n't  seem  to  mind  her  at  all,  and 
she  felt  quite  weak  among  them.  But  the  springing  tears  were 
checked  by  new  terror,  when  two  men  came  up,  whose  approach 
had  been  the  cause  of  the  sudden  excitement.  The  elder  of  the 
two  carried  a  bag,  which  he  flung  down,  addressing  the  women 
in  a  loud  and  scolding  tone,  which  they  answered  by  a  shower 
of  treble  sauciness  ;  while  a  black  cur  ran  barking  up  to  Mag- 
gie, and  threw  her  into  a  tremor  that  only  found  a  new  cause  in 
the  curses  with  which  the  younger  man  called  the  dog  off,  and 
gave  him  a  rap  with  a  great  stick  he  held  in  his  hand. 

Maggie  felt  that  it  was  impossible  she  should  ever  be  queen 
of  these  people,  or  ever  communicate  to  them  amusing  and  use- 
ful knowledge. 

Both  the  men  now  seemed  to  be  inquiring  about  Maggie,  fo: 
they  looked  at  her,  and  the  tone  of  the  conversation  became  of 
that  pacific  kind  which  implies  curiosity  on  one  side  and  the 
power  of  satisfying  it  on  the  other.  At  last  the  younger  woman 
said  in  her  previous  deferential,  coaxing  tone, — 

"  This  nice  little  lady  's  come  to  live  with  us ;  are  n't  you 
glad  ?  " 

"  Ay,  very  glad,"  said  the  younger  man,  who  was  looking  at 
Maggie's  silver  thimble  and  other  small  matters  that  had  been 
taken  from  her  pocket.  He  returned  them  all  except  the  thim- 


102  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

ble  to  the  younger  woman,  with  some  observation,  and  she 
immediately  restored  them  to  Maggie's  pocket,  while  the  men 
seated  themselves,  and  began  to  attack  the  contents  of  the 
kettle,  —  a  stew  of  meat  and  potatoes,  —  which  had  been  taken 
off  the  tire  and  turned  out  into  a  yellow  platter. 

Maggie  began  to  think  that  Tom  must  be  right  about  the 
gypsies  ;  they  must  certainly  be  thieves,  unless  the  man  meant 
to  return  her  thimble  by-and-by.  She  would  willingly  have 
given  it  to  him,  for  she  was  not  at  all  attached  to  her  thimble ; 
but  the  idea  that  she  was  among  thieves  prevented  her  from 
fueling  any  comfort  in  the  revival  of  deference  and  attention 
towards  her;  all  thieves,  except  Robin  Hood,  were  wicked 
people.  The  women  saw  she  was  frightened. 

"  We  've  got  nothing  nice  for  a  lady  to  eat,"  said  the  old 
woman,  in  her  coaxing  tone.  "  And  she  's  so  hungry,  sweet 
little  lady." 

"  Here,  my  dear,  try  if  you  can  eat  a  bit  o'  this,"  said  the 
younger  woman,  handing  some  of  the  stew  on  a  brown  dish 
with  an  iron  spoon  to  Maggie,  who,  remembering  that  the  old 
woman  had  seemed  angry  with  her  for  not  liking  the  bread- 
and-bacon,  dared  not  refuse  the  stew,  though  fear  had  chased 
away  her  appetite.  If  her  father  would  but  come  by  in  the 
gig  and  take  her  up !  Or  even  if  Jack  the  Giantkiller,  or  Mr. 
Greatheart,  or  St.  George  who  slew  the  dragon  on  the  half- 
pennies, would  happen  to  pass  that  way  1  But  Maggie  thought 
with  a  sinking  heart  that  these  heroes  were  never  seen  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  St.  Ogg's ;  nothing  very  wonderful  ever 
came  there. 

Maggie  Tulliver,  you  perceive,  was  by  no  means  that  well- 
trained,  well-informed  young  person  that  a  small  female  of 
eight  or  nine  necessarily  is  in  these  days ;  she  had  only  been 
to  school  a  year  at  St.  Ogg's,  and  had  so  few  books  that  she 
sometimes  read  the  dictionary ;  so  that  in  travelling  over  her 
small  mind  you  would  have  found  the  most  unexpected  igno- 
rance as  well  as  unexpected  knowledge.  She  could  have  in- 
formed you  that  there  was  such  a  word  as  "  polygamy,"  and 
being  also  acquainted  with  "  polysyllable,"  she  had  deduced 
the  conclusion  that  "  poly  "  meant  "  many ;  "  but  she  had  had 
no  idea  that  gypsies  were  not  well  supplied  with  groceries,  and 
her  thoughts  generally  were  the  oddest  mixture  of  clear-eyed 
acumen  and  blind  dreams. 

Her  ideas  about  the  gypsies  had  undergone  a  rapid  modifica- 
tion in  the  last  five  minutes.  From  having  considered  them  very 
respectful  companions,  amenable  to  instruction,  she  had  begun 


BOY  AND   GIRL. 

to  think  that  they  meant  perhaps  to  kill  her  as  soon  as  it  was 
lark,  and  cut  up  her  body  for  gradual  cooking ;  the  suspicion 
crossed  her  that  the  fierce-eyed  old  man  was  in  fact  the  Devil, 
who  might  drop  that  transparent  disguise  at  any  moment,  and 
turn  either  into  the  grinning  blacksmith,  or  else  a  fiery-eyed 
monster  with  dragon's  wings.  It  was  no  use  trying  to  eat  the 
stew,  and  yet  the  thing  she  most  dreaded  was  to  offend  the 
gypsies,  by  betraying  her  extremely  unfavourable  opinion  of 
them ;  and  she  wondered,  with  a  keenness  of  interest  that  no 
theologian  could  have  exceeded,  whether,  if  the  Devil  were 
really  present,  he  would  know  her  thoughts. 

"  What !  you  don't  like  the  smell  of  it,  my  dear,"  said  the 
young  woman,  observing  that  Maggie  did  not  even  take  a 
spoonful  of  the  stew.  "  Try  a  bit,  come." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  summoning  all  her  force  for 
a  desperate  effort,  and  trying  to  smile  in  a  friendly  way.  "  I 
have  n't  time,  I  think ;  it  seems  getting  darker.  I  think  I 
must  go  home  now,  and  come  again  another  day,  and  then  I  can 
bring  you  a  basket  with  some  jam-tarts  and  things." 

Maggie  rose  from  her  seat  as  she  threw  out  this  illusory 
prospect,  devoutly  hoping  that  Apollyon  was  gullible ;  but 
her  hope  sank  when  the  old  gypsy-woman  said,  "  Stop  a  bit, 
stop  a  bit,  little  lady ;  we  '11  take  you  home,  all  safe,  when 
we  've  done  supper ;  you  shall  ride  home,  like  a  lady." 

Maggie  sat  down  again,  with  little  faith  in  this  promise, 
though  she  presently  saw  the  tall  girl  putting  a  bridle  on  the 
donkey,  and  throwing  a  couple  of  bags  on  his  back. 

"Now,  then,  little  missis,"  said  the  younger  man,  rising, 
and  leading  the  donkey  forward,  "  tell  us  where  you  live ; 
what 's  the  name  o'  the  place  ?  " 

"  Dorlcote  Mill  is  my  home,"  said  Maggie,  eagerly.  "  My 
father  is  Mr.  Tulliver;  he  lives  there." 

"  What !  a  big  mill  a  little  way  this  side  o'  St.  Ogg's  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie.  "  Is  it  far  off  ?  I  think  I  should  like 
to  walk  there,  if  you  please." 

"  No,  no,  it  '11  be  getting  dark,  we  must  make  haste.  And 
the  donkey  '11  carry  you  as  nice  as  can  be ;  you  '11  see." 

He  lifted  Maggie  as  he  spoke,  and  set  her  on  the  donkey. 
She  felt  relieved  that  it  was  not  the  old  man  who  seemed  to 
be  going  with  her,  but  she  had  only  a  trembling  hope  that  she 
was  really  going  home. 

•'  Here 's  your  pretty  bonnet,"  said  the  younger  woman, 
putting  that  recently  despised  but  now  welcome  article  of 
costume  on  Maggie's  head ;  "  and  you  '11  say  we  've  been  very 


104  THI:  MI  LI,  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

good  to  you,  won't  you  ?  and  what  a  nice  little  lady  we  said 
you  was." 

"Oh  yes,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  "I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  But  I  wish  you'd  go  with  me  too."  She 
thought  anything  was  better  than  going  with  one  of  the 
dreadful  men  alone ;  it  would  be  more  cheerful  to  be  mur- 
•li-ivd  by  a  larger  party. 

tt  Ah,  you're  fondest  o'  me,  are  n't  you  ?  "  said  the  woman. 
"  But  I  can't  go ;  you  '11  go  too  fast  for  me." 

It  now  appeared  that  the  man  also  was  to  be  seated  on  the 
donkey,  holding  Maggie  before  him,  and  she  was  as  incapable 
of  remonstrating  against  this  arrangement  as  the  donkey 
himself,  thoxigh  no  nightmare  had  ever  seemed  to  her  more 
horrible.  When  the  woman  had  patted  her  on  the  back,  and 
said  "  Good-bye,"  the  donkey,  at  a  strong  hint  from  the  man's 
stick,  set  off  at  a  rapid  walk  along  the  lane  towards  the  point 
Maggie  had  come  from  an  hour  ago,  while  the  tall  girl  and  the 
rough  urchin,  also  furnished  with  sticks,  obligingly  escorted 
them  for  the  first  hundred  yards,  with  much  screaming  and 
thwacking. 

Not  Leonore,  in  that  preternatural  midnight  excursion  with 
her  phantom  lover,  was  more  terrified  than  poor  Maggie  in 
this  entirely  natural  ride  on  a  short-paced  donkey,  with  a 
gypsy  behind  her,  who  considered  that  he  was  earning  half- 
a-crown.  The  red  light  of  the  setting  sun  seemed  to  have  a 
portentous  meaning,  with  which  the  alarming  bray  of  the 
second  donkey  with  the  log  on  its  foot  must  surely  have  some 
connection.  Two  low  thatched  cottages  —  the  only  houses 
they  passed  in  this  lane  —  seemed  to  add  to  its  dreariness ; 
they  had  no  windows  to  speak  of,  and  the  doors  were  closed ; 
it  was  probable  that  they  were  inhabited  by  witches,  and  it 
was  a  relief  to  find  that  the  donkey  did  not  stop  there. 

At  last  —  oh,  sight  of  joy!  —  this  lane,  the  longest  in  the 
world,  was  coming  to  an  end,  was  opening  on  a  broad  high- 
road, where  there  was  actually  a  coach  passing!  And  there 
was  a  finger-post  at  the  corner,  —  she  had  surely  seen  that  fin- 
•vr-post  lictore,  —  "To  St.  Ogg's,  2  miles."  The  gypsy  really 
meant  to  take  her  home,  then;  he  was  probably  a  good  man, 
after  all,  and  might  have  been  rat  Jier  hurt  at  the  thought  that 
she  did  n't  like  coming  with  him  alone.  This  idea  became 
stronger  as  she  felt  more  and  more  certain  that  she  knew  the 
road  quite  well,  and  she  was  considering  how  she  might  open 
a  conversation  with  the  injured  gypsy,  and  not  only  gratify 
his  feelings  but  efface  the  impression  of  her  cowardice,  when, 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  105 

as  they  reached  a  cross-road,  Maggie  caught  sight  of  some  one 
coming  on  a  white-faced  horse. 

"  Oh,  stop,  stop ! "  she  cried  out.  "  There 's  my  father !  Oh, 
father,  father!"' 

The  sudden  joy  was  almost  painful,  and  before  her  father 
reached  her,  she  was  sobbing.  Great  was  Mr.  Tulliver's  won- 
der, for  he  had  made  a  round  from  Basset,  and  had  not  yet 
been  home. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  meaning  o'  this  ?  "  he  said,  checking  his 
horse,  while  Maggie  slipped  from  the  donkey  and  ran  to  her 
father's  stirrup. 

"The  little  miss  lost  herself,  I  reckon,"  said  the  gypsy. 
"  She  'd  come  to  our  tent  at  the  far  end  o'  Dunlow  Lane,  and  I 
was  bringing  her  where  she  said  her  home  was.  It 's  a  good 
way  to  come  arter  being  on  the  tramp  all  day." 

"  Oh  yesj  father,  he 's  been  very  good  to  bring  me  home," 
said  Maggie,  —  "a  very  kind,  good  man ! " 

"Here,  then,  my  man,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  taking  out  five 
shillings.  "  It 's  the  best  day's  work  you  ever  did.  I  could  n't 
afford  to  lose  the  little  wench ;  here,  lift  her  up  before  me." 

"  Why,  Maggie,  how 's  this,  how 's  this  ?  "  he  said,  as  they 
rode  along,  while  she  laid  her  head  against  her  father  and 
sobbed.  "  How  came  you  to  be  rambling  about  and  lose  your- 
self ?  " 

"  Oh,  father,"  sobbed  Maggie,  "  I  ran  away  because  I  was 
so  unhappy ;  Tom  was  so  angry  with  me.  I  could  n't  bear  it." 

"  Pooh,  pooh,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  soothingly,  "  you  must  n't 
think  o'  running  away  from  father.  What  'ud  father  do  with- 
out his  little  wench  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  I  never  will  again,  father  —  never." 

Mr.  Tulliver  spoke  his  mind  very  strongly  when  he  reached 
home  that  evening ;  and  the  effect  was  seen  in  the  remarkable 
fact  that  Maggie  never  heard  one  reproach  from  her  mother, 
or  one  taunt  from  Tom,  about  this  foolish  business  of  her  run- 
ning away  to  the  gypsies.  Maggie  was  rather  awe-stricken 
by  this  unusual  treatment,  and  sometimes  thought  that  her 
conduct  had  been  too  wicked  to  be  alluded  to. 


106  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

MR.    AND    MRS.    GLEGG    AT    HOME. 

IN  order  to  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glegg  at  home,  we  must  enter 
the  town  of  St.  Ogg's, — that  venerable  town  with  the  red- 
fluted  roofs  and  the  broad  warehouse  gables,  where  the  black 
ships  unlade  themselves  of  their  burthens  from  the  far  north, 
iiiid  carry  away,  in  exchange,  the  precious  inland  products,  the 
well-crushed  cheese  and  the  soft  fleeces,  which  my  refined 
readers  have  doubtless  become  acquainted  with  through  the 
medium  of  the  best  classic  pastorals. 

It  is  one  of  those  old,  old  towns  which  impress  one  as  a 
continuation  and  outgrowth  of  nature,  as  much  as  the  nests  of 
the  bower-birds  or  the  winding  galleries  of  the  white  ants ;  a 
town  which  carries  the  traces  of  its  long  growth  and  history 
like  a  millennial  tree,  and  has  sprung  up  and  developed  in  the 
same  spot  between  the  river  and  the  low  hill  from  the  time 
when  the  Roman  legions  turned  their  backs  on  it  from  the 
camp  on  the  hillside,  and  the  long-haired  sea-kings  came  up 
the  river  and  looked  with  fierce,  eager  eyes  at  the  fatness  of 
the  land.  It  is  a  town  "  familiar  with  forgotten  years."  The 
shadow  of  the  Saxon  hero-king  still  walks  there  fitfully, 
reviewing  the  scenes  of  his  youth  and  love-time,  and  is  met 
by  the  gloomier  shadow  of  the  dreadful  heathen  Dane,  who 
was  stabbed  in  the  midst  of  his  warriors  by  the  sword  of  an 
invisible  avenger,  and  who  rises  on  autumn  evenings  like  a 
white  mist  from  his  tumulus  on  the  hill,  and  hovers  in  the 
court  of  the  old  hall  by  the  river-side,  the  spot  where  he 
was  thus  miraculously  slain  in  the  days  before  the  old  hall 
was  built.  It  was  the  Normans  who  began  to  build  that  fine 
old  hall,  which  is,  like  the  town,  telling  of  the  thoughts  and 
hands  of  widely  sundered  generations  ;  but  it  is  all  so  old 
that  we  look  with  loving  pardon  at  its  inconsistencies,  and  an 
well  content  that  they  who  built  the  stone  oriel,  and  they  who 
built  the  Gothic  facade  and  towers  of  finest  small  brickwork 
with  the  trefoil  ornament,  and  the  windows  and  battlements 

di-ti 1  with  stone,  did  not  sacrilegiously  pull  down  the  ancient 

half-timbered  body  with  its  oak-roofed  banqueting-hall. 

Put  older  even  than  this  old  hall  is  perhaps  the  bit  of  wall 
now  built  into  the  belfry  of  the  parish  church,  and  said  to  be 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  107 

a  remnant  of  the  original  chapel  dedicated  to  St.  Ogg,  the 
patron  saint  of  this  ancient  town,  of  whose  history  I  possess 
several  manuscript  versions.  I  incline  to  the  briefest,  since, 
if  it  should  not  be  wholly  true,  it  is  at  least  likely  to  contain 
the  least  falsehood.  "  Ogg  the  son  of  Beorl,"  says  my  private 
hagiographer,  "  was  a  boatman  who  gained  a  scanty  living  by 
ferrying  passengers  across  the  river  Floss.  And  it  came  to 
pass,  one  evening  when  the  winds  were  high,  that  there  sat 
moaning  by  the  brink  of  the  river  a  woman  with  a  child  in 
her  arms  ;  and  she  was  clad  in  rags,  and  had  a  worn  and  with- 
ered look,  and  she  craved  to  be  rowed  across  the  river.  And 
the  men  thereabout  questioned  her,  and  said,  '  Wherefore  dost 
thou  desire  to  cross  the  river  ?  Tarry  till  the  morning,  and 
take  shelter  here  for  the  night ;  so  shalt  thou  be  wise  and  not 
foolish.'  Still  she  went  on  to  mourn  and  crave.  But  Ogg 
the  son  of  Beorl  came  up  and  said,  '  I  will  ferry  thee  across ; 
it  is  enough  that  thy  heart  needs  it.'  And  he  ferried  her 
across.  And  it  came  to  pass,  when  she  stepped  ashore,  that 
her  rags  were  turned  into  robes  of  flowing  white,  and  her  face 
became  bright  with  exceeding  beauty,  and  there  was  a  glory 
around  it,  so  that  she  shed  a  light  on  the  water  like  the  moon 
in  its  brightness.  And  she  said,  '  Ogg,  the  son  of  Beorl, 
thou  art  blessed  in  that  thou  didst  not  question  and  wrangle 
with  the  heart's  need,  but  wast  smitten  with  pity,  and  didst 
straightway  relieve  the  same.  And  from  henceforth  whoso 
steps  into  thy  boat  shall  be  in  no  peril  from  the  storm  ;  and 
whenever  it  puts  forth  to  the  rescue,  it  shall  save  the  lives 
both  of  men  and  beasts.'  And  when  the  floods  came,  many 
were  saved  by  reason  of  that  blessing  on  the  boat.  But  when 
Ogg  the  son  of  Beorl  died,  behold,  in  the  parting  of  his  soul, 
the  boat  loosed  itself  from  its  moorings,  and  was  floated  with 
the  ebbing  tide  in  great  swiftness  to  the  ocean,  and  was  seen  no 
more.  Yet  it  was  witnessed  in  the  floods  of  aftertime,  that 
at  the  coming  on  of  eventide,  Ogg  the  son  of  Beorl  was  always 
seen  with  his  boat  upon  the  wide-spreading  waters,  and  the 
Blessed  Virgin  sat  in  the  prow,  shedding  a  light  around  as  of 
the  moon  in  its  brightness,  so  that  the  rowers  in  the  gathering 
darkness  took  heart  and  pulled  anew." 

This  legend,  one  sees,  reflects  from  a  far-off  time  the  visi- 
tation of  the  floods,  which,  even  when  they  left  human  life 
untouched,  were  widely  fatal  to  the  helpless  cattle,  and  swept 
as  sudden  death  over  all  smaller  living  things.  But  the  town 
knew  worse  troubles  even  than  the  floods,  —  troubles  of  the 
civil  wars,  when  it  was  a  continual  fighting-place,  where  first 


108  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Puritans  thanked  God  for  the  blood  of  the  Loyalists,  and 
then  loyalists  thanked  God  for  the  blood  of  the  Puritans. 
Many  honest  citizens  lost  all  their  possessions  for  conscience' 
sake  in  those  tunes,  and  went  forth  beggared  from  their  native 
town.  Doubtless  there  are  many  houses  standing  now  on 
which  those  honest  citizens  turned  their  backs  in  sorrow,  — 
quaint-gabled  houses  looking  on  the  river,  jammed  betwi-'-n 
newer  warehouses,  and  penetrated  by  surprising  passages, 
which  turn  and  turn  at  sharp  angles  till  they  lead  you  out 
on  a  muddy  strand  overflowed  continually  by  the  rushing  tide,. 
Everywhere  the  brick  houses  have  a  mellow  look,  and  in  Mrs. 
Glegg's  day  there  was  no  incongruous  new-fashioned  smart- 
ness, no  plate-glass  in  shop-windows,  no  fresh  stucco-facing  or 
other  fallacious  attempt  to  make  fine  old  red  St.  Ogg's  wear 
the  air  of  a  town  that  sprang  up  yesterday.  The  shop-win- 
dows were  small  and  unpretending ;  for  the  farmers'  wives  and 
daughters  who  came  to  do  their  shopping  on  market-days 
were  not  to  be  withdrawn  from  their  regular  well-known 
shops ;  and  the  tradesmen  had  no  wares  intended  for  custom- 
ers who  would  go  on  their  way  and  be  seen  no  more.  Ah  ! 
even  Mrs.  Glegg's  day  seems  far  back  in  the  past  now,  sepa- 
rated from  us  by  changes  that  widen  the  years.  War  and  the 
rumour  of  war  had  then  died  out  from  the  minds  of  men,  and 
if  they  were  ever  thought  of  by  the  farmers  in  drab  greatcoats, 
who  shook  the  grain  out  of  their  sample-bags  and  buzzed  over 
it  in  the  full  market-place,  it  was  as  a  state  of  things  that 
belonged  to  a  past  golden  age,  when  prices  were  high.  Surely 
the  time  was  gone  for  ever  when  the  broad  river  could  bring 
up  unwelcome  ships ;  Russia  was  only  the  place  where  the 
linseed  came  from, — the  more  the  better,  —  making  grist  for 
the  great  vertical  millstones  with  their  scythe-like  arms, 
roaring  and  grinding  and  carefully  sweeping  as  if  an  inform- 
ing soul  were  in  them.  The  Catholics,  bad  harvests,  and  the 
mysterious  fluctuations  of  trade  were  the  three  evils  man- 
kind had  to  fear ;  even  the  floods  had  not  been  great  of  late 
years.  The  mind  of  St.  Ogg's  did  not  look  extensively  before 
or  after.  It  inherited  a  long  past  without  thinking  of  it,  and 
had  no  eyes  for  the  spirits  that  walk  the  streets.  Since  the 
centuries  when  St.  Ogg  with  his  boat  and  the  Virgin  Mother 
at  the  prow  had  been  seen  on  the  wide  water,  so  many  mem- 
ories had  been  left  behind,  and  had  gradually  vanished  like 
the  receding  hill-tops !  And  the  present  time  was  like  the 
level  plain  where  men  lose  their  belief  in  volcanoes  and  earth- 
quakes, thinking  to-morrow  will  be  as  yesterday,  and  the 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  109 

giant  forces  that  used  to  shake  the  earth  are  for  ever  laid  to 
sleep.  The  days  were  gone  when  people  could  be  greatly 
wrought  upon  by  their  faith,  still  less  change  it ;  the  Catholics 
were  formidable  because  they  would  lay  hold  of  government 
and  property,  and  burn  men  alive  ;  not  because  any  sane  and 
honest  parishioner  of  St.  Ogg's  could  be  brought  to  believe 
in  the  Pope.  One  aged  person  remembered  how  a  rude  multi- 
tude had  been  swayed  when  John  Wesley  preached  in  the 
cattle-market ;  but  for  a  long  while  it  had  not  been  ex- 
pected of  preachers  that  they  should  shake  the  souls  of  men. 
An  occasional  burst  of  fervour  in  Dissenting  pulpits  on  the 
subject  of  infant  baptism  was  the  only  symptom  of  a  zeal 
unsuited  to  sober  times  when  men  had  done  with  change. 
Protestantism  sat  at  ease,  unmindful  of  schisms,  careless  of 
proselytism  .  Dissent  was  an  inheritance  along  with  a  superior 
pew  and  a  business  connection ;  and  Churchmanship  only 
wondered  contemptuously  at  Dissent  as  a  foolish  habit  that 
clung  greatly  to  families  in  the  grocery  and  chandlering  lines, 
though  not  incompatible  with  prosperous  wholesale  dealing. 
But  with  the  Catholic  Question  had  come  a  slight  wind  of 
controversy  to  break  the  calm :  the  elderly  rector  had  become 
occasionally  historical  and  argumentative  ;  and  Mr.  Spray,  the 
Independent  minister,  had  begun  to  preach  political  sermons, 
in  which  he  distinguished  with  much  subtlety  between  his 
fervent  belief  in  the  right  of  the  Catholics  to  the  franchise  and 
his  fervent  belief  in  their  eternal  perdition.  Most  of  Mr. 
Spray's  hearers,  however,  were  incapable  of  following  his  sub- 
tleties, and  many  old-fashioned  Dissenters  were  much  pained 
by  his  "  siding  with  the  Catholics ;  "  while  others  thought  he 
had  better  let  politics  alone.  Public  spirit  was  not  held  in 
high  esteem  at  St.  Ogg's,  and  men  who  busied  themselves 
with  political  questions  were  regarded  with  some  suspicion, 
as  dangerous  characters ;  they  were  usually  persons  who  had 
little  or  no  business  of  their  own  to  manage,  or,  if  they  had, 
were  likely  enough  to  become  insolvent. 

This  was  the  general  aspect  of  things  at  St.  Ogg's  in  Mrs. 
Glegg's  day,  and  at  that  particular  period  in  her  family  history 
when  she  had  had  her  quarrel  with  Mr.  Tulliver.  It  was  a  time 
when  ignorance  was  much  more  comfortable  than  at  present, 
and  was  received  with  all  the  honours  in  very  good  society, 
without  being  obliged  to  dress  itself  in  an  elaborate  costume  of 
knowledge ;  a  time  when  cheap  periodicals  were  not,  and  when 
country  surgeons  never  thought  of  asking  their  female  patients 
if  they  were  fond  of  reading,  but  simply  took  it  for  granted 


110  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

that  they  preferred  gossip;  a  time  when  ladies  In  rich  silk 
gowns  wore  large  pockets,  in  which  they  carried  a  mutton-bone 
to  secure  them  against  cramp.  Mrs.  Glegg  carried  such  a  bone, 
which  she  had  inherited  from  her  grandmother  with  a  brocaded 
gown  that  would  stand  up  empty,  like  a  suit  of  armour,  and 
a  silver-headed  walking-stick ;  for  the  Dodson  family  had  been 
respectable  for  many  generations. 

Mrs.  Glegg  had  both  a  front  and  a  back  parlour  in  her  excel- 
lent house  at  St.  Ogg's,  so  that  she  had  two  points  of  view 
from  which  she  could  observe  the  weakness  of  her  fellow- 
beings,  and  reinforce  her  thankfulness  for  her  own  exceptional 
strength  of  mind.  From  her  front  windows  she  could  look 
down  the  Tofton  Itoad,  leading  out  of  St.  Ogg's,  and  note  the 
growing  tendency  to  "gadding  about"  in  the  wives  of  men 
not  retired  from  business,  together  with  a  practice  of  wearing 
woven  cotton  stockings,  which  opened  a  dreary  prospect  for 
the  coming  generation;  and  from  her  back  windows  she  could 
look  down  the  pleasant  garden  and  orchard  which  stretched  to 
the  river,  and  observe  the  folly  of  Mr.  Glegg  in  spending  his 
time  among  "  them  flowers  and  vegetables."  For  Mr.  Glegg,  hav- 
ing retired  from  active  business  as  a  wool-stapler,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  enjoying  himself  through  the  rest  of  his  life,  had  found 
this  last  occupation  so  much  more  severe  than  his  business, 
that  he  had  been  driven  into  amateur  hard  labour  as  a  dissipa- 
tion, and  habitually  relaxed  by  doing  the  work  of  two  ordinary 
gardeners.  The  economising  of  a  gardener's  wages  might  per- 
haps have  induced  Mrs.  Glegg  to  wink  at  this  folly,  if  it  were 
possible  for  a  healthy  female  mind  even  to  simulate  respect 
for  a  husband's  hobby.  But  it  is  well  known  that  this  conjugal 
complacency  belongs  only  to  the  weaker  portion  of  the  sex,  who 
are  scarcely  alive  to  the  responsibilities  of  a  wife  as  a  consti- 
tuted check  on  her  husband's  pleasures,  which  are  hardly  ever 
of  a  rational  or  commendable  kind. 

Mr.  Glegg  on  his  side,  too,  had  a  double  source  of  mental 
occupation,  which  gave  every  promise  of  being  inexhaustible. 
On  the  one  hand,  he  surprised  himself  by  his  discoveries  in 
natural  history,  finding  that  his  piece  of  garden-ground  con- 
tained wonderful  caterpillars,  slugs,  and  insects,  which,  so  far 
as  he  had  heard,  had  never  before  attracted  human  observation  ; 
and  he  noticed  remarkable  coincidences  between  these  zoological 
phenomena  and  the  great  events  of  that  time,  —  as,  for  exam- 
ple, that  before  the  burning  of  York  Minster  there  had  been 
mysterious  serpentine  marks  on  the  leaves  of  the  rose-trees,  to- 
gether with  an  unusual  prevalence,  of  slugs,  which  he  had  been 


BOY  AND  GIRL.  Ill 

puzzled  to  know  the  meaning  of,  until  it  flashed  upon  him  with 
this  melancholy  conflagration.  (Mr.  Glegg  had  an  unusual 
amount  of  mental  activity,  which,  when  disengaged  from  the 
wool  business,  naturally  made  itself  a  pathway  in  other  direc- 
tions.) And  his  second  subject  of  meditation  was  the  "con- 
trairiness  "  of  the  female  mind,  as  typically  exhibited  in  Mrs. 
Glegg.  That  a  creature  made  —  in  a  genealogical  sense  —  out 
of  a  man's  rib,  and  in  this  particular  case  maintained  in  the  high- 
est respectability  without  any  trouble  of  her  own,  should  be 
normally  in  a  state  of  contradiction  to  the  blandest  propositions 
and  even  to  the  most  accommodating  concessions,  was  a  mys- 
tery in  the  scheme  of  things  to  which  he  had  often  in  vain 
sought  a  clue  in  the  early  chapters  of  Genesis.  Mr.  Glegg  had 
chosen  the  eldest  Miss  Dodson  as  a  handsome  embodiment  of 
female  prudence  and  thrift,  and  being  himself  of  a  money- 
getting,  money-keeping  turn,  had  calculated  on  much  conjugal 
harmony.  But  in  that  curious  compound,  the  feminine  char- 
acter, it  may  easily  happen  that  the  flavour  is  unpleasant  in 
spite  of  excellent  ingredients  ;  and  a  fine  systematic  stinginess 
may  be  accompanied  with  a  seasoning  that  quite  spoils  its 
relish.  Now,  good  Mr.  Glegg  himself  was  stingy  in  the  most 
amiable  manner ;  his  neighbours  called  him  "  near,"  which 
always  means  that  the  person  in  question  is  a  lovable  skinflint. 
If  you  expressed  a  preference  for  cheese-parings,  Mr.  Glegg 
would  remember  to  save  them  for  you,  with  a  good-natured 
delight  in  gratifying  your  palate,  and  he  was  given  to  pet  all 
animals  which  required  no  appreciable  keep.  There  was  no 
humbug  or  hypocrisy  about  Mr.  Glegg ;  his  eyes  would  have 
watered  with  true  feeling  over  the  sale  of  a  widow's  furniture, 
which  a  five-pound  note  from  his  side-pocket  would  have  pre- 
vented ;  but  a  donation  of  five  pounds  to  a  person  "  in  a  small 
way  of  life  "  would  have  seemed  to  him  a  mad  kind  of  lavish- 
ness  rather  than  "  charity,"  which  had  always  presented  itself 
to  him  as  a  contribution  of  small  aids,  not  a  neutralising  of  mis- 
fortune. And  Mr.  Glegg  was  just  as  fond  of  saving  other  peo- 
ple's money  as  his  own ;  he  would  have  ridden  as  far  round  to 
avoid  a  turnpike  when  his  expenses  were  to  be  paid  for  him,  as 
when  they  were  to  come  out  of  his  own  pocket,  and  was  quite 
zealous  in  trying  to  induce  indifferent  acquaintances  to  adopt  a 
cheap  substitute  for  blacking.  This  inalienable  habit  of  saving, 
as  an  end  in  itself,  belonged-  to  the  industrious  men  of  business 
of  a  former  generation,  who  made  their  fortunes  slowly,  almost 
as  the  tracking  of  the  fox  belongs  to  the  harrier,  —  it  consti- 
tuted them  a  "  race,"  which  is  nearly  lost  in  these  days  of  rapid 


112  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

money-getting,  when  lavishness  comes  close  on  the  back  of 
want.  In  old-fashioned  times  an  "  independence  "  was  hardly 
ever  made  without  a  little  miserliness  as  a  condition,  and  you 
would  have  found  that  quality  in  every  provincial  district,  com- 
bined with  characters  as  various  as  the  fruits  from  which  we  can 
extract  acid.  The  true  Harpagons  were  always  marked  and  ex- 
ceptional characters  ;  not  so  the  worthy  tax-payers,  who,  having 
once  pinched  from  real  necessity,  retained  even  in  the  midst  of 
their  comfortable  retirement,  with  their  wall-fruit  and  wine- 
bins,  the  habit  of  regarding  life  as  an  ingenious  process  of 
nibbling  out  one's  livelihood  without  leaving  any  perceptible 
deficit,  and  who  would  have  been  as  immediately  prompted  to 
give  up  a  newly  taxed  luxury  when  they  had  their  clear  five 
hundred  a-year,  as  when  they  had  only  five  hundred  pounds  of 
capital.  Mr.  Glegg  was  one  of  these  men,  found  so  impractica- 
ble by  chancellors  of  the  exchequer ;  and  knowing  this,  you  will 
be  the  better  able  to  understand  why  he  had  not  swerved  from 
the  conviction  that  he  had  made  an  eligible  marriage,  in  spite 
of  the  too  pungent  seasoning  that  nature  had  given  to  the  eldest 
Miss  Dodson's  virtues.  A  man  with  an  affectionate  disposition, 
who  finds  a  wife  to  concur  with  his  fundamental  idea  of  life, 
easily  comes  to  persuade  himself  that  no  other  woman  would 
have  suited  him  so  well,  and  does  a  little  daily  snapping  and 
quarrelling  without  any  sense  of  alienation.  Mr.  Glegg,  being 
of  a  reflective  turn,  and  no  longer  occupied  with  wool,  had  much 
wondering  meditation  on  the  peculiar  constitution  of  the  female 
mind  as  unfolded  to  him  in  his  domestic  life ;  and  yet  he  thought 
M  rs.  Glegg's  household  ways  a  model  for  her  sex.  It  struck 
him  as  a  pitiable  irregularity  in  other  women  if  they  did  not 
roll  up  their  table-napkins  with  the  same  tightness  and  empha- 
sis as  Mrs.  Glegg  did,  if  their  pastry  had  a  less  leathery  consist- 
ence, and  their  damson  cheese  a  less  venerable  hardness  than 
hers ;  nay.  even  the  peculiar  combination  of  grocery  and  drug- 
like  odours  in  Mrs.  Glegg's  private  cupboard  impressed  him  as 
the  only  right  thing  in  the  way  of  cupboard  smells.  I  am  not 
sure  that  he  would  not  have  longed  for  the  quarrelling  again,  if 
it  had  ceased  for  an  entire  week ;  and  it  is  certain  that  an  ac- 
quiescent, mild  wife  would  have  left  his  meditations  compara- 
tively jejune  and  barren  of  mystery. 

Mr.  (Hogg's  unmistakeable  kind-heartedness  was  shown  in 
this,  that  it  pained  him  more  to  see  his  wife  at  variance  with 
others, — even  with  Dolly,  the  servant,  —  than  to  be  in  a  state 
of  cavil  with  her  himself;  and  the  quarrel  between  her  and 
Mr.  Tulliver  vexed  him  so  much  that  it  quite  nullified  the 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  113 

pleasure  he  would  otherwise  have  had  in  the  state  of  his  early 
cabbages,  as  he  walked  in  his  garden  before  breakfast  the 
next  morning.  Still,  he  went  in  to  breakfast  with  some  slight 
hope  that,  now  Mrs.  Glegg  had  "slept  upon  it,"  her  anger 
might  be  subdued  enough  to  give  way  to  her  usually  strong 
sense  of  family  decorum.  She  had  been  used  to  boast  that 
there  had  never  been  any  of  those  deadly  quarrels  among  the 
Dodsons  which  had  disgraced  other  families ;  that  no  Dodson 
had  ever  been  "  cut  off  with  a  shilling,"  and  no  cousin  of  the 
Dodsons  disowned  ;  as,  indeed,  why  should  they  be  ?  For  they 
had  no  cousins  who  had  not  money  out  at  use,  or  some  houses 
of  their  own,  at  the  very  least. 

There  was  one  evening-cloud  which  had  always  disappeared 
from  Mrs.  Glegg's  brow  when  she  sat  at  the  breakfast-table.  It 
was  her  fuzzy  front  of  curls ;  for  as  she  occupied  herself  in 
household  matters  in  the  morning,  it  would  have  been  a  mere 
extravagance  to  put  on  anything  so  superfluous  to  the  making 
of  leathery  pastry  as  a  fuzzy  curled  front.  By  half-past  ten 
decorum  demanded  the  front ;  until  then  Mrs.  Glegg  could 
economise  it,  and  society  would  never  be  any  the  wiser.  But 
the  absence  of  that  cloud  only  left  it  more  apparent  that  the 
cloud  of  severity  remained ;  and  Mr.  Glegg,  perceiving  this,  as 
he  sat  down  to  his  milk-porridge,  which  it  was  his  old  frugal 
habit  to  stem  his  morning  hunger  with,  prudently  resolved  to 
leave  the  first  remark  to  Mrs.  Glegg,  lest,  to  so  delicate  an 
article  as  a  lady's  temper,  the  slightest  touch  should  do  mis- 
chief. People  who  seem  to  enjoy  their  ill-temper  have  a 
way  of  keeping  it  in  fine  condition  by  inflicting  privations  on 
themselves.  That  was  Mrs.  Glegg's  way.  She  made  her  tea 
weaker  than  usual  this  morning,  and  declined  butter.  It  was 
a  hard  case  that  a  vigorous  mood  for  quarrelling,  so  highly 
capable  of  using  any  opportunity,  should  not  meet  with  a 
single  remark  from  Mr.  Glegg  on  which  to  exercise  itself.  But 
by-and-by  it  appeared  that  his  silence  would  answer  the  pur- 
pose, for  he  heard  himself  apostrophised  at  last  in  that  tone 
peculiar  to  the  wife  of  one's  bosom. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Glegg !  it 's  a  poor  return  I  get  for  making  you 
the  wife  I  've  made  you  all  these  years.  If  this  is  the  way 
I  'm  to  be  treated,  I  'd  better  ha'  known  it  before  my  poor 
father  died,  and  then,  when  I  'd  wanted  a  home,  I  should  ha' 
gone  elsewhere,  as  the  choice  was  offered  me." 

Mr.  Glegg  paused  from  his  porridge  and  looked  up,  not 
with  any  new  amazement,  but  simply  with  that  quiet,  habitual 
wonder  with  which  we  regard  constant  mysteries. 

I 


114  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Why,  Mrs.  G.,  what  have  I  done  now  ?  " 

" Done  now,  Mr.  Glegg ?  done  now ?  —  I'm  sorry  for  you." 

Not  seeing  his  way  to  any  pertinent  answer,  Mr.  Glegg  re- 
verted to  his  porridge. 

"  There  's  husbands  in  the  world,"  continued  Mrs.  Glegg, 
after  a  pause,  "  as  'ud  have  known  how  to  do  something  dif- 
ferent to  siding  with  everybody  else  against  their  own  wives. 
Perhaps  I  'm  wrong  and  you  can  teach  me  better.  But  I  've 
allays  heard  as  it 's  the  husband's  place  to  stand  by  the 
wife,  instead  o'  rejoicing  and  triumphing  when  folks  insult 
her." 

"  Now,  what  call  have  you  to  say  that  ? "  said  Mr.  Glegg, 
rather  warmly,  for  though  a  kind  man,  he  was  not  as  meek  as 
Moses.  "  When  did  I  rejoice  or  triumph  over  you  ?  " 

"There's  ways  o'  doing  things  worse  than  speaking  out 
plain,  Mr.  Glegg.  I  'd  sooner  you  'd  tell  me  to  my  face  as  you 
make  light  of  me,  than  try  to  make  out  as  everybody 's  in  the 
right  but  me,  and  come  to  your  breakfast  in  the  morning,  as 
I  've  hardly  slept  an  hour  this  night,  and  sulk  at  me  as  if  I 
was  the  dirt  under  your  feet." 

"  Sulk  at  you  ? "  said  Mr.  Glegg,  in  a  tone  of  angry  face- 
tiousness.  "  You  're  like  a  tipsy  man  as  thinks  everybody 's 
had  too  much  but  himself." 

"Don't  lower  yourself  with  using  coarse  language  to  me, 
Mr.  Glegg !  It  makes  you  look  very  small,  thoiigh  you  can't 
see  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  in  a  tone  of  energetic  com- 
passion. "  A  man  in  your  place  should  set  an  example,  and 
talk  more  sensible." 

"  Yes ;  but  will  you  listen  to  sense  ?  "  retorted  Mr.  Glegg, 
sharply.  "  The  best  sense  I  can  talk  to  you  is  what  I  said 
last  night,  —  as  you  're  i'  the  wrong  to  think  o'  calling  in  your 
money,  when  it's  safe  enough  if  you'd  let  it  alone,  all  because 
of  a  bit  of  a  tiff,  and  I  was  in  hopes  you  'd  ha'  altered  your 
mind  this  morning.  But  if  you  'd  like  to  call  it  in,  don't  do 
it  in  a  hurry  now,  and  breed  more  enmity  in  the  family,  but 
wait  till  there  's  a  pretty  mortgage  to  be  had  without  any 
trouble.  You  'd  have  to  set  the  lawyer  to  work  now  to  rim! 
an  investment,  and  make  no  end  o'  expense." 

Mrs.  Glegg  felt  there  was  really  something  in  this,  but  she 
tossed  her  head  and  emitted  a  guttural  interjection  to  indicate 
that  her  silence  was  only  an  armistice,  not  a  peace.  And,  in 
fact,  hostilities  soon  broke  out  again. 

"  I  '11  thank  you  for  my  cup  o'  tea,  now,  Mrs.  G.,"  said  Mr. 
Glegg,  seeing  that  she  did  not  proceed  to  give  it  him  as  usual, 


BO Y  AND   GIRL.  115 

•when  he  had  finished  his  porridge.  She  lifted  the  teapot  with 
a  slight  toss  of  the  head,  and  said,  — 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  you  '11  thank  me,  Mr.  Glegg.  It 's  little 
thanks  /  get  for  what  I  do  for  folks  i'  this  world.  Though 
there  's  never  a  woman  o'  your  side  o'  the  family,  Mr.  Glegg, 
as  is  fit  to  stand  up  with  me,  and  I  'd  say  it  if  I  was  on  my 
dying  bed.  Not  but  what  I  've  allays  conducted  myself  civil 
to  your  kin,  and  there  is  n't  one  of  'em  can  say  the  contrary  > 
though  my  equils  they  are  n't,  and  nobody  shall  make  me  say 
it." 

"  You  'd  better  leave  finding  fault  wi'  my  kin  till  you  've 
left  off  quarrelling  with  your  own,  Mrs.  G.,"  said  Mr.  Glegg, 
with  angry  sarcasm.  "  I  '11  trouble  you  for  the  milk-jug." 

"  That 's  as  false  a  word  as  ever  you  spoke,  Mr.  Glegg,"  said 
the  lady,  pouring  out  the  milk  with  unusual  profuseness,  as 
much  as  to  say,  if  he  wanted  milk  he  should  have  it  with  a 
vengeance.  "  And  you  know  it 's  false.  I  'm  not  the  woman 
to  quarrel  with  my  own  kin ;  you  may,  for  I  've  known  you 
do  it." 

"Why,  what  did  you  call  it  yesterday,  then,  leaving  your 
sister's  house  in  a  tantrum  ?  " 

"  I  'd  no  quarrel  wi'  my  sister,  Mr.  Glegg,  and  it 's  false  to 
say  it.  Mr.  Tulliver  's  none  o'  my  blood,  and  it  was  him 
quarrelled  with  me,  and  drove  me  out  o'  the  house.  But  per- 
haps you  'd  have  had  me  stay  and  be  swore  at,  Mr.  Glegg ; 
perhaps  you  was  vexed  not  to  hear  more  abuse  and  foul  lan- 
guage poured  out  upo'  your  own  wife.  But,  let  me  tell  you, 
it 's  your  disgrace." 

"  Did  ever  anybody  hear  the  like  i'  this  parish  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Glegg,  getting  hot.  "  A  woman,  with  everything  provided  for 
her,  and  allowed  to  keep  her  own  money  the  same  as  if  it  was 
settled  on  her,  and  with  a  gig  new  stuffed  and  lined  at  no  end 
o'  expense,  and  provided  for  when  I  die  beyond  anything  she 
could  expect  —  to  go  on  i'  this  way,  biting  and  snapping  like  a 
mad  dog !  It 's  beyond  everything,  as  God  A'mighty  should 
ha'  made  women  so."  (These  last  words  were  uttered  in  a 
tone  of  sorrowful  agitation.  Mr.  Glegg  pushed  his  tea  from 
him,  and  tapped  the  table  with  both  his  hands.) 

"  Well,  Mr.  Glegg,  if  those  are  your  feelings,  it 's  best  they 
should  be  known,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  taking  off  her  napkin, 
and  folding  it  in  an  excited  manner.  "  But  if  you  talk  o'  my 
being  provided  for  beyond  what  I  could  expect,  I  beg  leave  to 
tell  you  as  I  'd  a  right  to  expect  a  many  things  as  I  don't  find. 
And  as  to  my  being  like  a  mad  dog,  it 's  well  if  you  're  not 


116  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

cried  shame  on  by  the  county  for  your  treatment  of  me,  for 
it 's  what  I  can't  bear,  and  I  won't  bear  — 

Here  Mrs.  Glegg's  voice  intimated  that  she  was  going  to 
cry,  and  breaking  off  from  speech,  she  rang  the  bell  violently. 

"Sally,"  she  said,  rising  from  her  chair,  and  speaking  in 
rather  a  choked  voice,  "light  a  fire  up-stairs,  and  put  the 
blinds  down.  Mr.  Glegg,  you  '11  please  to  order  what  you  'd 
like  for  dinner.  I  shall  have  gruel." 

Mrs.  Glegg  walked  across  the  room  to  the  small  book-case, 
and  took  down  Baxter's  "  Saints'  Everlasting  Rest,"  which  she 
carried  with  her  up-stairs.  It  was  the  book  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  lay  open  before  heron  special  occasions,  —  on  wet 
Sunday  mornings,  or  when  she  heard  of  a  death  in  the  family, 
or  when,  as  in  this  case,  her  quarrel  with  Mr.  Glegg  had  been 
set  an  octave  higher  than  usual. 

But  Mrs.  Glegg  carried  something  else  up-stairs  with  her, 
which,  together  with  the  "  Saints'  Rest "  and  the  gruel,  may 
have  had  some  influence  in  gradually  calming  her  feelings, 
and  making  it  possible  for  her  to  endure  existence  on  the 
ground-floor  shortly  before  tea-time.  This  was,  partly,  Mr. 
Glegg's  suggestion  that  she  would  do  well  to  let  her  five 
hundred  lie  still  until  a  good  investment  turned  up ;  and, 
further,  his  parenthetic  hint  at  his  handsome  provision  for  her 
in  case  of  his  death.  Mr.  Glegg,  like  all  men  of  his  stamp, 
was  extremely  reticent  about  his  will ;  and  Mrs.  Glegg,  in  her 
gloomier  moments,  had  forebodings  that,  like  other  husbands 
of  whom  she  had  heard,  he  might  cherish  the  mean  project  of 
heightening  her  grief  at  his  death  by  leaving  her  poorly  off, 
in  which  case  she  was  firmly  resolved  that  she  would  have 
scarcely  any  weeper  on  her  bonnet,  and  would  cry  no  more 
than  if  he  had  been  a  second  husband.  But  if  he  had  really 
shown  her  any  testamentary  tenderness,  it  would  be  affecting 
to  think  of  him,  poor  man,  when  he  was  gone ;  and  even  his 
foolish  fuss  about  the  flowers  and  garden-stuff,  and  his  insist- 
ance  on  the  subject  of  snails,  would  be  touching  when  it  was 
once  fairly  at  an  end.  To  survive  Mr.  Glegg,  and  talk  eulo- 
gistically  of  him  as  a  man  who  might  have  his  weaknesses, 
but  who  had  done  the  right  thing  by  her,  notwithstanding  his 
numerous  poor  relations ;  to  have  sums  of  interest  coming  in 
more  frequently,  and  secrete  it  in  various  corners,  baffling  to 
the  most  ingenious  of  thieves  (for,  to  Mrs.  Glegg's  mind, 
banks  and  strong-boxes  would  have  nullified  the  pleasure  of 
property ;  she  might  as  well  have  taken  her  food  in  cap- 
sules) ;  finally,  to  be  looked  up  to  by  her  own  family  and  the 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  117 

neighbourhood,  so  as  no  won!..  ;  v,ai  ever  hope  to  be  who  has 
not  the  prset'.n-ite  and  present  dignity  comprised  in  being  a 
"  widow  well  left,"  —  all  this  made  a  flattering  and  concilia- 
tory view  of  the  future.  So  that  when  good  Mr.  Glegg, 
restored  to  good-humour  by  much  hoeing,  and  moved  by  the 
sight  of  his  wife's  empty  chair,  with  her  knitting  rolled  up  in 
the  corner,  went  up-stairs  to  her,  and  observed  that  the  bell 
had  been  tolling  for  poor  Mr.  Morton,  Mrs.  Glegg  answered 
magnanimously,  quite  as  if  she  had  been  an  uninjured  woman, 
"  Ah !  then,  there  '11  be  a  good  business  for  somebody  to  take 
to." 

Baxter  had  been  open  at  least  eight  hours  by  this  time,  for 
it  was  nearly  five  o'clock ;  and  if  people  are  to  quarrel  often, 
it  follows  as  a  corollary  that  their  quarrels  cannot  be  pro- 
tracted beyond  certain  limits. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glegg  talked  quite  amicably  about  the  Tulli- 
vers  that  evening.  Mr.  Glegg  went  the  length  of  admitting 
that  Tulliver  was  a  sad  man  for  getting  into  hot  water,  and 
was  like  enough  to  run  through  his  property ;  and  Mrs.  Glegg, 
meeting  this  acknowledgment  half-way,  declared  that  it  was 
beneath  her  to  take  notice  of  such  a  man's  conduct,  and  that, 
for  her  sister's  sake,  she  would  let  him  keep  the  five  hundred 
a  while  longer,  for  when  she  put  it  out  on  a  mortgage  she 
should  only  get  four  per  cent. 


CHAPTEE  XIII. 

MB.    TULLIVER    FURTHER    ENTANGLES    THE    SKEIN    OF    LIFE, 

OWING  to  this  new  adjustment  of  Mrs.  Glegg's  thoughts, 
Mrs.  Pullet  found  her  task  of  mediation  the  next  day  surpris- 
ingly easy.  Mrs.  Glegg,  indeed,  checked  her  rather  sharply 
for  thinking  it  would  be  necessary  to  tell  her  elder  sister  what 
was  the  right  mode  of  behaviour  in  family  matters.  Mrs.  Pul- 
let's argument,  that  it  would  look  ill  in  the  neighbourhood  if 
people  should  have  it  in  their  power  to  say  that  there  was  a 
quarrel  in  the  family,  was  particularly  offensive.  If  the  fam- 
ily name  never  suffered  except  through  Mrs.  Glegg,  Mrs.  Pul- 
let might  lay  her  head  on  her  pillow  in  perfect  confidence. 

"  It 's  not  to  be  expected,  I  suppose,"  observed  Mrs.  Glegg, 
by  way  of  winding  up  the  subject,  "as  I  shall  go  to  the  mill 


118  THE  MILL   ON   THE   F7.OSS. 

again  before  Bessy  comes  to  see  me,  or  as  I  shall  go  and  fall 
down  o'  my  knees  to  Mr.  Tulliver,  and  ask  his  pardon  for 
showing  him  favours ;  but  I  shall  bear  no  malice,  and  when 
Mr.  Tulliver  speaks  civil  to  me,  I'll  speak  civil  to  him.  No- 
body has  any  call  to  tell  me  what 's  becoming." 

Finding  it  unnecessary  to  plead  for  the  Tullivers,  it  was 
natural  that  aunt  Pullet  should  relax  a  little  in  her  anxiety 
for  them,  and  recur  to  the  annoyance  she  had  suffered  yester- 
.lay  from  the  offspring  of  that  apparently  ill-fated  house. 
Mrs.  Glegg  heard  a  circumstantial  narrative,  to  which  Mr. 
Pullet's  remarkable  memory  furnished  some  items ;  and  while 
aunt  Pullet  pitied  poor  Bessy's  bad-luck  with  her  children, 
and  expressed  a  half-formed  project  of  paying  for  Maggie's 
being  sent  to  a  distant  boarding-school,  which  would  not 
prevent  her  being  so  brown,  but  might  tend  to  subdue  some 
other  vices  in  her,  aunt  Glegg  blamed  Bessy  for  her  weakness, 
and  appealed  to  all  witnesses  who  should  be  living  when  the 
Tulliver  children  had  turned  out  ill,  that  she,  Mrs.  Glegg,  had 
always  said  how  it  would  be  from  the  very  first,  observing 
that  it  was  wonderful  to  herself  how  all  her  words  came 
true. 

"  Then  I  may  call  and  tell  Bessy  you  '11  bear  no  malice,  and 
everything  be  as  it  was  before  ?  "  Mrs.  Pullet  said,  just  before 
parting. 

"Yes,  you  may,  Sophy,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg;  "you  may  tell 
Mr.  Tulliver,  and  Bessy  too,  as  I  'in  not  going  to  behave  ill 
because  folks  behave  ill  to  me ;  I  know  it 's  my  place,  as  the 
eldest,  to  set  an  example  in  every  respect,  and  I  do  it.  No- 
body can  say  different  of  me,  if  they  '11  keep  to  the  truth." 

Mrs.  Glegg  being  in  this  state  of  satisfaction  in  her  own 
lofty  magnanimity,  I  leave  you  to  judge  what  effect  was  pro- 
duced on  her  by  the  reception  of  a  short  letter  from  Mr. 
Tulliver  that  very  evening,  after  Mrs.  Pullet's  departure,  in- 
forming her  that  she  need  n't  trouble  her  mind  about  her  five 
hundred  pounds,  for  it  should  be  paid  back  to  her  in  the 
course  of  the  next  month  at  farthest,  together  with  the 
interest  due  thereon  until  the  time  of  payment.  And  fur- 
thermore, that  Mr.  Tulliver  had  no  wish  to  behave  uncivilly 
to  Mrs.  Glegg,  and  she  was  welcome  to  his  house  whenever 
she  liked  to  come,  but  he  desired  no  favours  from  her,  either 
for  himself  or  his  children. 

It  was  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  who  had  hastened  this  catastro- 
phe, entirely  through  that  irrepressible  hopefulness  of  hers 
which  led  her  to  expect  that  similar  causes  may  at  any  time 


BOY  AND   GIRL.  119 

produce  different  results.  It  Lad  very  often  occurred  in  her 
experience  that  Mr.  Tulliver  had  done  something  because 
other  people  had  said  he  was  not  able  to  do  it,  or  had 
pitied  him  for  his  supposed  inability,  or  in  any  other  way 
piqued  his  pride ;  still,  she  thought  to-day,  if  she  told  him 
when  he  came  in  to  tea  that  sister  Pullet  was  gone  to  try  and 
make  everything  up  with  sister  Glegg,  so  that  he  needn't 
think  about  paying  in  the  money,  it  would  give  a  cheerful 
effect  to  the  meal.  Mr.  Tulliver  had  never  slackened  in 
his  resolve  to  raise  the  money,  but  now  he  at  once  determined 
to  write  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Glegg,  which  should  cut  off  all  possi- 
bility of  mistake.  Mrs.  Pullet  gone  to  beg  and  pray  for 
him  indeed!  Mr.  Tulliver  did  not  willingly  write  a  letter, 
and  found  the  relation  between  spoken  and  written  language, 
briefly  known  as  spelling,  one  of  the  most  puzzling  things  in 
this  puzzling  world.  Nevertheless,  like  all  fervid  writing,  the 
task  was  done  in  less  time  than  usual,  and  if  the  spelling  dif- 
fered from  Mrs.  Glegg's,  —  why,  she  belonged,  like  himself, 
to  a  generation  with  whom  spelling  was  a  matter  of  private 
judgment. 

Mrs.  Glegg  did  not  alter  her  will  in  consequence  of  this 
letter,  and  cut  off  the  Tulliver  children  from  their  sixth  and 
seventh  share  in  her  thousand  pounds ;  for  she  had  her  princi- 
ples. No  one  must  be  able  to  say  of  her  when  she  was  dead 
that  she  had  not  divided  her  money  with  perfect  fairness  among 
her  own  kin.  In  the  matter  of  wills,  personal  qualities  were 
subordinate  to  the  great  fundamental  fact  of  blood  ;  and  to  be 
determined  in  the  distribution  of  your  property  by  caprice, 
and  not  make  your  legacies  bear  a  direct  ratio  to  degrees  of 
kinship,  was  a  prospective  disgrace  that  would  have  embittered 
her  life.  This  had  always  been  a  principle  in  the  Dodson  fam- 
ily ;  it  was  one  form  of  that  sense  of  honour  and  rectitude 
which  was  a  proud  tradition  in  such  families,  —  a  tradition 
which  has  been  the  salt  of  our  provincial  society. 

But  though  the  letter  could  not  shake  Mrs.  Glegg's  princi- 
ples, it  made  the  family  breach  much  more  difficult  to  mend  : 
and  as  to  the  effect  it  produced  on  Mrs.  Glegg's  opinion  of  Mr. 
Tulliver,  she  begged  to  be  understood  from  that  time  forth 
that  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  say  about  him ;  his  state  of 
mind,  apparently,  was  too  corrupt  for  her  to  contemplate  it 
for  a  moment.  It  was  not  until  the  evening  before  Tom  went 
to  school,  at  the  beginning  of  August,  that  Mrs.  Glegg  paid  a 
visit  to  her  sister  Tulliver,  sitting  in  her  gig  all  the  while,  and 
showing  her  displeasure  by  markedly  abstaining  from  all  ad- 


120  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

vice  and  criticism ;  for,  as  she  observed  to  her  sister  Deane, 
"  Bessy  must  bear  the  consequence  o'  having  such  a  husband, 
though  I  'm  sorry  for  her,"  and  Mrs.  Deane  agreed  that  Bessy 
was  pitiable. 

That  evening  Tom  observed  to  Maggie,  "  Oh  my  !  Maggie, 
aunt  Glegg  's  beginning  to  come  again ;  I  'm  glad  I  'm  going  to 
school.  You  'II  catch  it  all  now  !  " 

Maggie  was  already  so  full  of  sorrow  at  the  thought  of 
Tom's  going  away  from  her,  that  this  playful  exultation  of 
his  seemed  very  unkind,  and  she  cried  herself  to  sleep  that 
night. 

Mr.  Tulliver's  prompt  procedure  entailed  on  him  further 
promptitude  in  finding  the  convenient  person  who  was  de- 
sirous of  lending  five  hundred  pounds  on  bond.  "  It  must  be 
no  client  of  Wakem's,"  he  said  to  himself ;  and  yet  at  the  end 
of  a  fortnight  it  turned  out  to  the  contrary  ;  not  because  Mr. 
Tulliver's  will  was  feeble,  but  because  external  fact  was 
stronger.  Wakem's  client  was  the  only  convenient  person 
to  be  found.  Mr.  Tulliver  had  a  destiny  as  well  as  CEdipus, 
and  in  this  case  he  might  plead,  like  CEdipus,  that  his  deed 
was  inflicted  on  him  rather  than  committed  by  him. 


BOOK    II. 

SCHOOL-TIME. 

CHAPTER  I. 
TOM'S  "FIKST  HALF." 

TOM  TULLIVER'S  sufferings  during  the  first  quarter  lie  was 
at  King's  Lorton,  under  the  distinguished  care  of  the  Kev. 
Walter  Stelling,  were  rather  severe.  At  Mr.  Jacobs's  academy 
life  had  not  presented  itself  to  him  as  a  difficult  problem ;  there 
were  plenty  of  fellows  to  play  with,  and  Tom  being  good  at 
all  active  games,  —  fighting  especially,  —  had  that  precedence 
among  them  which  appeared  to  him  inseparable  from  the 
personality  of  Torn  Tulliver.  Mr.  Jacobs  himself,  familiarly 
known  as  Old  Goggles,  from  his  habit  of  wearing  spectacles, 
imposed  no  painful  awe ;  and  if  it  was  the  property  of  snuffy 
old  hypocrites  like  him  to  write  like  copperplate  and  surround 
their  signatures  with  arabesques,  to  spell  without  forethought, 
and  to  spout  "  my  name  is  ISTorval "  without  bungling,  Tom,  for 
his  part,  was  rather  glad  he  was  not  in  danger  of  those  mean 
accomplishments.  He  was  not  going  to  be  a  snuffy  school- 
master, he,  but  a  substantial  man,  like  his  father,  who  used 
to  go  hunting  when  he  was  younger,  and  rode  a  capital  black 
mare,  —  as  pretty  a  bit  of  horse-flesh  as  ever  you  saw ;  Tom 
had  heard  what  her  points  were  a  hundred  times.  He  meant 
to  go  hunting  too,  and  to  be  generally  respected.  When  peo- 
ple were  grown  up,  he  considered,  nobody  inquired  about  their 
writing  and  spelling ;  when  he  was  a  man,  he  should  be  master 
of  everything,  and  do  just  as  he  liked.  It  had  been  very  diffi- 
cult for  him  to  reconcile  himself  to  the  idea  that  his  school- 
time  was  to  be  prolonged,  and  that  he  was  not  to  be  brought  up 
to  his  father's  business,  which  he  had  always  thought  ex- 
tremely pleasant ;  for  it  was  nothing  but  riding  about,  giving 
orders,  and  going  to  market ;  and  he  thought  that  a  clergyman 
would  give  him  a  great  many  Scripture  lessons,  and  probably 


122  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

make  him  learn  the  Gospel  and  Epistle  on  a  Sunday,  as  well  as 
the  Collect.  But  in  the  absence  of  specific  information,  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  imagine  that  school  and  a  schoolmaster 
would  be  something  entirely  different  from  the  academy  of 
Mr.  Jacobs.  So,  not  to  be  at  a  deficiency,  in  case  of  his  finding 
genial  companions,  he  had  taken  care  to  carry  with  him  a  small 
box  of  percussion-caps ;  not  that  there  was  anything  particular 
to  be  done  with  them,  but  they  would  serve  to  impress  strange 
boys  with  a  sense  of  his  familiarity  with  guns.  Thus  poor  Tom, 
though  he  saw  very  clearly  through  Maggie's  illusions,  was  not 
without  illusions  of  his  own,  which  were  to  be  cruelly  dissi- 
pated by  his  enlarged  experience  at  King's  Lorton. 

He  had  not  been  there  a  fortnight  before  it  was  evident  to 
him  that  life,  complicated  not  only  with  the  Latin  grammar 
but  with  a  new  standard  of  English  pronunciation,  was  a  very 
difficult  business,  made  all  the  more  obscure  by  a  thick  mist  of 
bashfulness.  Tom,  as  you  have  observed,  was  never  an  excep- 
tion among  boys  for  ease  of  address ;  but  the  difficulty  of  enun- 
ciating a  monosyllable  in  reply  to  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Stelling  was  so 
great,  that  he  even  dreaded  to  be  asked  at  table  whether  he 
would  have  more  pudding.  As  to  the  percussion-caps,  he  had 
almost  resolved,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  that  he  would 
throw  them  into  a  neighbouring  pond ;  for  not  only  was  he  the 
solitary  pupil,  but  he  began  even  to  have  a  certain  scepticism 
about  guns,  and  a  general  sense  that  his  theory  of  life  was 
undermined.  For  Mr.  Stelling  thought  nothing  of  guns,  or 
horses  either,  apparently ;  and  yet  it  was  impossible  for  Tom 
to  despise  Mr.  Stelling  as  he  had  despised  Old  Goggles.  If 
there  were  anything  that  was  not  thoroughly  genuine  about 
Mr.  Stelling,  it  lay  quite  beyond  Tom's  power  to  detect  it ;  it  is 
only  by  a  wide  comparison  of  facts  that  the  wisest  full-grown 
man  can  distinguish  well-rolled  barrels  from  more  supernal 
thunder. 

Mr.  Stelling  was  a  well-sized,  broad-chested  man,  not  yet 
thirty,  with  flaxen  hair  standing  erect,  and  large  lightish-grey 
eyes,  which  were  always  very  wide  open ;  he  had  a  sonorous 
bass  voice,  and  an  air  of  defiant  self-confidence  inclining  to 
brazenness.  He  had  entered  on  his  career  with  great  vigour, 
and  intended  to  make  a  considerable  impression  on  his  fellow- 
men.  The  Rev.  Walter  Stelling  was  not  a  man  who  would 
remain  among  the  "  inferior  clergy "  all  his  life.  He  had  a 
true  British  determination  to  push  his  way  in  the  world,  —  as  a 
schoolmaster,  in  the  first  place,  for  there  were  capital  master- 
ships of  grammar-schools  to  be  had,  and  Mr.  Stelling  meant  to 


SCHOOL-TIME.  123 

have  one  of  them ;  but  as  a  preacher  also,  for  he  meant  always 
to  preach  in  a  striking  manner,  so  as  to  have  his  congregation 
swelled  by  admirers  from  neighbouring  parishes,  and  to  pro- 
duce a  great  sensation  whenever  he  took  occasional  duty  for  a 
brother  clergyman  of  minor  gifts.  The  style  of  preaching  he 
had  chosen  was  the  extemporaneous,  which  was  held  little  short 
of  the  miraculous  in  rural  parishes  like  King's  Lorton.  Some 
passages  of  Massillon  and  Bourdaloue,  which  he  knew  by  heart, 
were  really  very  effective  when  rolled  out  in  Mr.  Stelling's  deep- 
est tones  ;  but  as  comparatively  feeble  appeals  of  his  own  werb 
delivered  in  the  same  loud  and  impressive  manner,  they  wert> 
often  thought  quite  as  striking  by  his  hearers.  Mr.  Stelling's 
doctrine  was  of  no  particular  school ;  if  anything,  it  had  a 
tinge  of  evangelicalism,  for  that  was  "the  telling  thing "  just 
then  in  the  diocese  to  which  King's  Lorton  belonged.  In  short, 
Mr.  Stelling  was  a  man  who  meant  to  rise  in  his  profession,  and 
to  rise  by  merit,  clearly,  since  he  had  no  interest  beyond  what 
might  be  promised  by  a  problematic  relationship  to  a  great 
lawyer  who  had  not  yet  become  Lord  Chancellor.  A  clergyman 
who  has  such  vigorous  intentions  naturally  gets  a  little  into 
debt  at  starting ;  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  he  will  live  in  the 
meagre  style  of  a  man  who  means  to  be  a  poor  curate  all  his  life ; 
and  if  the  few  hundreds  Mr.  Timpson  advanced  towards  his 
daughter's  fortune  did  not  suffice  for  the  purchase  of  handsome 
furniture,  together  with  a  stock  of  wine,  a  grand  piano,  and  the 
laying  out  of  a  superior  flower-garden,  it  followed  in  the  most 
rigorous  manner,  either  that  these  things  must  be  procured  by 
some  other  means,  or  else  that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Stelling  must  go 
without  them,  which  last  alternative  would  be  an  absurd  pro- 
crastination of  the  fruits  of  success,  where  success  was  certain. 
Mr.  Stelling  was  so  broad-chested  and  resolute  that  he  felt 
equal  to  anything ;  he  would  become  celebrated  by  shaking 
the  consciences  of  his  hearers,  and  he  Avould  by-and-by  edit  a 
Greek  play,  and  invent  several  new  readings.  He  had  not  yet 
selected  the  play,  for  having  been  married  little  more  than  two 
years,  his  leisure  tim'e  had  been  much  occupied  with  attentions 
to  Mrs.  Stelling ;  but  he  had  told  that  fine  woman  what  he 
meant  to  do  some  day,  and  she  felt  great  confidence  in  her 
husband,  as  a  man  who  understood  everything  of  that  sort. 

But  the  immediate  step  to  future  success  was  to  bring  on 
Tom  Tulliver  during  this  first  half-year;  for,  by  a  singular 
coincidence,  there  had  been  some  negotiation  concerning 
another  pupil  from  the  same  neighbourhood,  and  it  might 
further  a  decision  in  Mr.  Stelling's  favour,  if  it  were  under- 


124  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

stood  that  young  Tulliver,  who,  Mr.  Stelling  observed  in  con- 
jugal privacy,  was  rather  a  rough  cub,  had  made  prodigious 
progress  in  a  short  time.  It  was  on  this  ground  that  he  was 
severe  with  Tom  about  his  lessons ;  he  was  clearly  a  boy 
whose  powers  would  never  be  developed  through  the  medium 
of  the  Latin  grammar,  without  the  application  of  some  stern- 
ness. Not  that  Mr.  Stelling  was  a  harsh-tempered  or  unkind 
nan  ;  quite  the  contrary.  He  was  jocose  with  Tom  at  table, 
.,/.;il  corrected  his  provincialisms  and  his  deportment  in  the 
most  playful  manner ;  but  poor  Tom  was  only  the  more  cowed 
and  confused  by  this  double  novelty,  for  he  had  never  been 
used  to  jokes  at  all  like  Mr.  Stelliug's ;  and  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  had  a  painful  sense  that  he  was  all  wrong  some- 
how. When  Mr.  Stelling  said,  as  the  roast-beef  was  being 
uncovered,  "  Now,  Tulliver !  which  would  you  rather  decline, 
roast-beef  or  the  Latin  for  it  ?  "  Tom,  to  whom  in  his  cool- 
est moments  a  pun  would  have  been  a  hard  nut,  was  thrown 
into  a  state  of  embarrassed  alarm  that  made  everything  dim 
to  him  except  the  feeling  that  he  would  rather  not  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  Latin ;  of  course  he  answered,  "  Roast-beef," 
whereupon  there  followed  much  laughter  and  some  practical 
joking  with  the  plates,  from  which  Tom  gathered  that  ho  had 
in  some  mysterious  way  refused  beef,  and,  in  fact,  made  him- 
self appear  "a  silly."  If  he  could  have  seen  a  fellow-pupil 
undergo  these  painful  operations  and  survive  them  in  good 
spirits,  he  might  sooner  have  taken  them  as  a  matter  of  course. 
But  there  are  two  expensive  forms  of  education,  either  of 
which  a  parent  may  procure  for  his  son  by  sending  him  as 
solitary  pupil  to  a  clergyman :  one  is  the  enjoyment  of  the 
reverend  gentleman's  undivided  neglect ;  the  other  is  the  en- 
durance of  the  reverend  gentleman's  undivided  attention.  It 
was  the  latter  privilege  for  which  Mr.  Tulliver  paid  a  high 
price  in  Tom's  initiatory  months  at  King's  Lorton. 

That  respectable  miller  and  maltster  had  left  Tom  behind, 
and  driven  homeward  in  a  state  of  great  mental  satisfaction. 
He  considered  that  it  was  a  happy  moment  for  him  when  he 
had  thought  of  asking  Riley's  advice  about  a  tutor  for  Tom. 
Mr.  Stelling's  eyes  were  so  wide  open,  and  he  talked  in  such 
an  off-hand,  matter-of-fact  way,  answering  every  difficult, 
slow  remark  of  Mr.  Tulliver's  with,  "I  see,  my  good  sir,  I 
see ; "  "  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure ; "  "  You  want  your  son  to  be  a 
man  who  will  make  his  way  in  the  world,''  —  that  Mr.  Tulliver 
was  delighted  to  find  in  him  a  clergyman  whose  knowledge 
was  so  applicable  to  the  every-day  affairs  of  this  life.  Except 


SCHOOL-TIME.  125 

Counsellor  Wylde,  whom  he  had  heard  at  the  last  sessions,  Mr. 
Tulliver  thought  the  Rev.  Mr.  Stelliug  was  the  shrewdest  fel- 
low he  had  ever  met  with,  —  not  unlike  Wylde,  in  fact ;  he 
had  the  same  way  of  sticking  his  thumbs  in  the  armholes  of 
his  waistcoat.  Mr.  Tulliver  was  not  by  any  means  an  excep- 
tion in  mistaking  brazenness  for  shrewdness ;  most  laymen 
thought  Stelling  shrewd,  and  a  man  of  remarkable  powers 
generally ;  it  was  chiefly  by  his  clerical  brethren  that  he  was 
considered  rather  a  dull  fellow.  But  he  told  Mr.  Tulliver 
several  stories  about  "  Swing  "  and  incendiarism,  and  asked  his 
advice  about  feeding  pigs  in  so  thoroughly  secular  and  judicious 
a  manner,  with  so  much  polished  glibness  of  tongue,  that  the 
miller  thought,  here  was  the  very  thing  he  wanted  for  Tom. 
He  had  no  doubt  this  first-rate  man  was  acquainted  with  every 
branch  of  information,  and  knew  exactly  what  Tom  must  learn 
in  order  to  become  a  match  for  the  lawyers,  which  poor  Mr. 
Tulliver  himself  did  not  know,  and  so  was  necessarily  thrown 
for  self-direction  on  this  wide  kind  of  inference.  It  is  hardly 
fair  to  laugh  at  him,  for  I  have  known  much  more  highly  in- 
structed persons  than  he  make  inferences  quite  as  wide,  and 
not  at  all  wiser. 

As  for  Mrs.  Tulliver,  finding  that  Mrs.  Stelling's  views  as 
to  the  airing  of  linen  and  the  frequent  recurrence  of  hunger 
in  a  growing  boy  entirely  coincided  with  her  own ;  moreover, 
that  Mrs.  Stelling,  though  so  young  a  woman,  and  only  antici- 
pating her  second  confinement,  had  gone  through  very  nearly 
the  same  experience  as  herself  with  regard  to  the  behaviour 
and  fundamental  character  of  the  monthly  nurse,  —  she  ex- 
pressed great  contentment  to  her  husband,  when  they  drove 
away,  at  leaving  Tom  with  a  woman  who,  in  spite  of  her 
youth,  seemed  quite  sensible  and  motherly,  and  asked  advice 
as  prettily  as  could  be. 

"  They  must  be  very  well  off,  though,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
"  for  everything 's  as  nice  as  can  be  all  over  the  house,  and  that 
watered  silk  she  had  on  cost  a  pretty  penny.  Sister  Pullet  has 
got  one  like  it." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  he 's  got  some  income  besides  the 
curacy,  I  reckon.  Perhaps  her  father  allows  'em  something. 
There 's  Tom  'ull  be  another  hundred  to  him,  and  not  nrach 
trouble  either,  by  his  own  account ;  he  says  teaching  comes 
natural  to  him.  That 's  wonderful,  now,"  added  Mr.  Tulliver, 
turning  his  head  on  one  side,  and  giving  his  horse  a  meditative 
tickling  on  the  flank. 

Perhaps  it  was   because  teaching  came   naturally  to  Mr. 


126  THE   MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

Stelling,  that  he  set  about  it  with  that  uniformity  of  method 
and  independence  of  circumstances  which  distinguish  the 
actions  of  animals  understood  to  be  under  the  immediate 
teaching  of  nature.  Mr.  Broderip's  amiable  beaver,  as  that 
charming  naturalist  tells  us,  busied  himself  as  earnestly  in 
constructing  a  dam,  in  a  room  up  three  pair  of  stairs  in 
London,  as  if  he  had  been  laying  his  foundation  in  a  stream 
or  lake  in  Upper  Canada.  It  was  "  Binny's  "  function  to 
build;  the  absence  of  water  or  of  possible  progeny  was  an 
accident  for  which  he  was  not  accountable.  With  the  same 
unerring  instinct  Mr.  Stelling  set  to  work  at  his  natural 
method  of  instilling  the  Eton  Grammar  and  Euclid  into  the 
mind  of  Tom  Tulliver.  This,  he  considered,  was  the  only 
basis  of  solid  instruction ;  all  other  means  of  education  were 
mere  charlatanism,  and  could  produce  nothing  better  than 
smatterers.  Fixed  on  this  firm  basis,  a  man  might  observe 
the  display  of  various  or  special  knowledge  made  by  irregu- 
larly educated  people  with  a  pitying  smile ;  all  that  sort  of 
thing  was  very  well,  but  it  was  impossible  these  people  could 
form  sound  opinions.  In  holding  this  conviction  Mr.  Stelling 
was  not  biassed,  as  some  tutors  have  been,  by  the  excessive 
accuracy  or  extent  of  his  own  scholarship  ;  and  as  to  his  views 
about  Euclid,  no  opinion  could  have  been  freer  from  personal 
partiality.  Mr.  Stelling  was  very  far  from  being  led  astray 
by  enthusiasm,  either  religious  or  intellectual ;  on  the  other 
hand,  he  had  no  secret  belief  that  everything  was  humbug. 
He  thought  religion  was  a  very  excellent  thing,  and  Aristotle 
a  great  authority,  and  deaneries  and  prebends  useful  institu- 
tions, and  Great  Britain  the  providential  bulwark  of  Protes- 
tantism, and  faith  in  the  unseen  a  great  support  to  afflicted 
minds  ;  he  believed  in  all  these  things,  as  a  Swiss  hotel-keeper 
believes  in  the  beauty  of  the  scenery  around  him,  and  in  the 
pleasure  it  gives  to  artistic  visitors.  And  in  the  same  way 
Mr.  Stelling  believed  in  his  method  of  education ;  he  had 
no  doubt  that  he  was  doing  the  very  best  thing  for  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver's  boy.  Of  course,  when  the  miller  talked  of  "  mapping " 
and  "summing"  in  a  vague  and  diffident  manner,  Mr.  Stelling 
had  set  his  mind  at  rest  by  an  assurance  that  he  understood 
what  was  wanted ;  for  how  was  it  possible  the  good  man  could 
form  any  reasonable  judgment  about  the  matter  ?  Mr.  Stel- 
ling's  duty  was  to  teach  the  lad  in  the  only  right  way,  —  indeed 
he  knew  no  other ;  he  had  not  wasted  his  time  in  the  acquire- 
ment of  anything  abnormal. 

He  very  soon  set  down  poor  Tom  as  a  thoroughly  stupid 


SCHOOL-TIME.  127 

lad  ;  for  though  by  hard  labour  he  could  get  particular  declen- 
sions into  his  brain,  anything  so  abstract  as  the  relation  be- 
tween cases  and  terminations  could  by  no  means  get  such 
a  lodgment  there  as  to  enable  him  to  recognise  a  chance 
genitive  or  dative.  This  struck  Mr.  Stelling  as  something 
more  than  natural  stupidity;  he  suspected  obstinacy,  or  at 
any  rate  indifference,  and  lectured  Tom  severely  on  his 
want  of  thorough  application.  "  You  feel  no  interest  in 
what  you  're  doing,  sir,"  Mr.  Stelling  would  say,  and  the 
reproach  was  painfully  true.  Tom  had  never  found  any 
difficulty  in  discerning  a  pointer  from  a  setter,  when  once 
he  had  been  told  the  distinction,  and  his  perceptive  powers 
were  not  at  all  deficient.  I  fancy  they  were  quite  as  strong  as 
those  of  the  Eev.  Mr.  Stelling ;  for  Tom  could  predict  with 
accuracy  what  number  of  horses  were  cantering  behind  him, 
he  could  throw  a  stone  right  into  the  centre  of  a  given  ripple, 
he  could  guess  to  a  fraction  how  many  lengths  of  his  stick  it 
would  take  to  reach  across  the  playground,  and  could  draw 
almost  perfect  squares  on  his  slate  without  any  measurement. 
But  Mr.  Stelling  took  no  note  of  these  things ;  he  only  ob- 
served that  Tom's  faculties  failed  him  before  the  abstrac- 
tions hideously  symbolised  to  him  in  the  pages  of  the  Eton 
Grammar,  and  that  he  was  in  a  state  bordering  on  idiocy  with 
regard  to  the  demonstration  that  two  given  triangles  must  be 
equal,  though  he  could  discern  with  great  promptitude  and 
certainty  the  fact  that  they  were  equal.  Whence  Mr.  Stelling 
concluded  that  Tom's  brain,  being  peculiarly  impervious  to 
etymology  and  demonstrations,  was  peculiarly  in  need  of  be- 
ing ploughed  and  harrowed  by  these  patent  implements ;  it 
was  his  favourite  metaphor,  that  the  classics  and  geometry 
constituted  that  culture  of  the  mind  which  prepared  it  for  the 
reception  of  any  subsequent  crop.  I  say  nothing  against 
Mr.  Stelling's  theory ;  if  we  are  to  have  one  regimen  for  all 
minds,  his  seems  to  me  as  good  as  any  other.  I  only  know 
it  turned  out  as  uncomfortably  for  Tom  Tulliver  as  if  he  had 
been  plied  with  cheese  in  order  to  remedy  a  gastric  weakness 
which  prevented  him  from  digesting  it.  It  is  astonishing 
what  a  different  result  one  gets  by  changing  the  metaphor  ! 
Once  call  the  brain  an  intellectual  stomach,  and  one's  in- 
genious conception  of  the  classics  and  geometry  as  ploughs 
and  harrows  seems  to  settle  nothing.  But  then  it  is  open 
to  some  one  else  to  follow  great  authorities,  and  call  the  mind 
a  sheet  of  white  paper  or  a  mirror,  in  which  case  one's  knowl- 
edge of  the  digestive  process  becomes  quite  irrelevant.  It  was 


128  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

doubtless  an  ingenious  idea  to  call  the  camel  the  ship  of  the 
desert,  but  it  would  hardly  lead  one  far  in  training  that  useful 
beast.  O  Aristotle  !  if  you  had  had  the  advantage  of  being 
"  the  freshest  modern  "  instead  of  the  greatest  ancient,  would 
you  not  have  mingled  your  praise  of  metaphorical  speech,  as  a 
sign  of  high  intelligence,  with  a  lamentation  that  intelligence 
so  rarely  shows  itself  in  speech  without  metaphor, — that  we 
can  so  seldom  declare  what  a  thing  is,  except  by  saying  it 
is  something  else  ? 

Tom  Tulliver,  being  abundant  in  no  form  of  speech,  did  not 
use  any  metaphor  to  declare  his  views  as  to  the  nature  of  Latin ; 
he  never  called  it  an  instrument  of  torture  ;  and  it  was  not  until 
he  had  got  on  some  way  in  the  next  half-year,  and  in  the  De- 
lectus, that  he  was  advanced  enough  to  call  it  a  "  bore  "  and 
"beastly  stuff."  At  present,  in  relation  to  this  demand  that 
he  should  learn  Latin  declensions  and  conjugations,  Tom  was 
in  a  state  of  as  blank  unimaginativeness  concerning  the  cause 
and  tendency  of  his  sufferings,  as  if  he  had  been  an  innocent 
shrewmouse  imprisoned  in  the  split  trunk  of  an  ash-tree  in 
order  to  cure  lameness  in  cattle.  It  is  doubtless  almost 
incredible  to  instructed  minds  of  the  present  day  that  a 
boy  of  twelve,  not  belonging-  strictly  to  "  the  masses,"  who 
are  now  understood  to  have  the  monopoly  of  mental  darkness, 
should  have  had  no  distinct  idea  how  there  came  to  be  such  a 
thing  as  Latin  on  this  earth ;  yet  so  it  was  with  Tom.  It 
would  have  taken  a  long  while  to  make  conceivable  to  him 
that  there  ever  existed  a  people  who  bought  and  sold  sheep 
and  oxen,  and  transacted  the  every-day  affairs  of  life,  through 
the  medium  of  this  language ;  and  still  longer  to  make  him  un- 
derstand why  he  should  be  called  upon  to  learn  it,  when  its 
connection  with  those  affairs  had  become  entirely  latent.  So 
far  as  Tom  had  gained  any  acquaintance  with  the  Romans 
at  Mr.  Jacobs's  academy,  his  knowledge  was  strictly  correct, 
but  it  went  no  farther  than  the  fact  that  they  were  "  in  the 
New  Testament ; "  and  Mr.  Stelling  was  not  the  man  to 
enfeeble  and  emasculate  his  pupil's  mind  by  simplifying  and 
explaining,  or  to  reduce  the  tonic  effect  of  etymology  by 
mixing  it  with  smattering,  extraneous  information,  such  as 
is  given  to  girls. 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  under  this  vigorous  treatment  Tom 
became  more  like  a  girl  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life 
before.  He  had  a  large  share  of  pride,  which  had  hitherto 
found  itself  very  comfortable  in  the  world,  despising  Old  Gog- 
gles, and  reposing  in  the  sense  of  unquestioned  rights ;  but 


SCHOOL-TIME.  129 

now  this  same  pride  met  with  nothing  but  bruises  and  crush- 
ings.  Tom  was  too  clear-sighted  not  to  be  aware  that  Mr. 
Stelling's  standard  of  things  was  quite  different,  was  certainly 
something  higher  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  than  that  of  the 
people  he  had  been  living  amongst,  and  that,  brought  in  con- 
tact with  it,  he,  Tom  Tulliver,  appeared  uncouth  and  stupid ; 
he  was  by  no  means  indifferent  to  this,  and  his  pride  got  into 
an  uneasy  condition  which  quite  nullified  his  boyish  self-satis- 
faction, and  gave  him  something  of  the  girl's  suceptibility. 
He  was  of  a  very  firm,  not  to  say  obstinate,  disposition,  but 
there  was  no  brute-like  rebellion  and  recklessness  in  his 
nature ;  the  human  sensibilities  predominated,  and  if  it  had 
occurred  to  him  that  he  could  enable  himself  to  show  some 
quickness  at  his  lessons,  and  so  acquire  Mr.  Stelling's  appro- 
bation, by  standing  on  one  leg  for  an  inconvenient  length  of 
time,  or  rapping  his  head  moderately  against  the  wall,  or  any 
voluntary  action  of  that  sort,  he  would  certainly  have  tried  it. 
But  no ;  Tom  had  never  heard  that  these  measures  would 
brighten  the  understanding,  or  strengthen  the  verbal  memory ; 
and  he  was  not  given  to  hypothesis  and  experiment.  It  did 
occur  to  him  that  he  could  perhaps  get  some  help  by  praying 
for  it ;  but  as  the  prayers  he  said  every  evening  were  forms 
learned  by  heart,  he  rather  shrank  from  the  novelty  and  ir- 
regularity of  introducing  an  extempore  passage  on  a  topic  of 
•petition  for  which  he  was  not  aware  of  any  precedent.  But 
one  day,  when  he  had  broken  down,  for  the  fifth  time,  in  the 
supines  of  the  third  conjugation,  and  Mr.  Stelling,  convinced 
that  this  must  be  carelessness,  since  it  transcended  the  bounds 
of  possible  stupidity,  had  lectured  him  very  seriously,  point- 
ing out  that  if  he  failed  to  seize  the  present  golden  opportu- 
nity of  learning  supines,  he  would  have  to  regret  it  when  he 
became  a  man,  —  Tom,  more  miserable  than  usual,  determined 
to  try  his  sole  resource ;  and  that  evening,  after  his  usual  form 
of  prayer  for  his  parents  and  "  little  sister  "  (he  had  begun  to 
pray  for  Maggie  when  she  was  a  baby),  and  that  he  might 
be  able  always  to  keep  God's  commandments,  he  added,  in 
the  same  low  whisper,  "  and  please  to  make  me  always  remem- 
ber my  Latin."  He  paused  a  little  to  consider  how  he  should 
pray  about  Euclid  —  whether  he  should  ask  to  see  what  it 
meant,  or  whether  there  was  any  other  mental  state  which 
would  be  more  applicable  to  the  case.  But  at  last  he  added, 
"And  make  Mr.  Stelling  say  I  sha'n't  do  Euclid  any  more. 
Amen." 

The  fact  that  he  got  through  his  supines  without  mistake 

0 


130  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

the  next  day,  encouraged  him  to  persevere  in  this  appendix  to 
his  prayers,  and  neutralised  any  scepticism  that  might  have 
arisen  from  Mr.  Stelling's  continued  demand  for  Euclid.  But 
his  faith  broke  down  under  the  apparent  absence  of  all  help 
when  he  got  into  the  irregular  verbs.  It  seemed  clear  that 
Tom's  despair  under  the  caprices  of  the  present  tense  did  not 
constitute  a  nodus  worthy  of  interference,  and  since  this  was 
the  climax  of  his  difficulties,  where  was  the  use  of  praying 
for  help  any  longer  ?  He  made  up  his  mind  to  this  conclu- 
sion in  one  of  his  dull,  lonely  evenings,  which  he  spent  in  the 
study,  preparing  his  lessons  for  the  morrow.  His  eyes  were 
apt  to  get  dim  over  the  page,  though  he  hated  crying,  and 
was  ashamed  of  it;  he  couldn't  help  thinking  with  some 
affection  even  of  Spouncer,  whom  he  used  to  tight  and  quarrel 
with;  he  would  have  felt  at  home  with  Spouncer,  and  in  a 
condition  of  superiority.  And  then  the  mill,  and  the  river, 
and  Yap  pricking  up  his  ears,  ready  to  obey  the  least  sign 
whim  Tom  said,  "  Hoigh ! "  would  all  come  before  him  in  a 
sort  of  calenture,  when  his  fingers  played  absently  in  his 
pocket  with  his  great  knife  and  his  coil  of  whipcord,  and 
other  relics  of  the  past.  Tom,  as  I  said,  had  never  been  so 
much  like  a  girl  in  his  life  before,  and  at  that  epoch  of  irregu- 
lar verbs  his  spirit  was  further  depressed  by  a  new  means  of 
mental  development  which  had  been  thought  of  for  him  out 
of  school  hours.  Mrs.  Stelling  had  lately  had  her  second 
baby,  and  as  nothing  could  be  more  salutary  for  a  boy  than 
to  feel  himself  useful,  Mrs.  Stelling  considered  she  was  doing 
Tom  a  service  by  setting  him  to  watch  the  little  cherub  Laura 
while  the  nurse  was  occupied  with  the  sickly  baby.  It  was 
quite  a  pretty  employment  for  Tom  to  take  little  Laura  out 
in  the  sunniest  hour  of  the  autumn  day ;  it  would  help  to 
make  him  feel  that  Lorton  Parsonage  was  a  home  for  him,  and 
that  he  was  one  of  the  family.  The  little  cherub  Laura,  not 
being  an  accomplished  walker  at  present,  had  a  ribbon  fastened 
rourd  her  waist,  by  which  Tom  held  her  as  if  she  had  been  a 
Jittl*  dog  during  the  minutes  in  which  she  chose  to  walk ;  but 
as  th^se  were  rare,  he  was  for  the  most  part  carrying  this  fine 
child  round  and  round  the  garden,  within  sight  of  Mrs.  Stel- 
ling's window,  according  to  orders.  If  any  one  considers  this 
unfair  and  even  oppressive  towards  Tom,  I  beg  him  to  consider 
that  there  are  feminine  virtues  which  are  with  difficulty  com- 
bined, even  if  they  are  not  incompatible.  When  the  wife  of  a 
poor  curate  contrives,  under  all  her  disadvantages,  to  dress 
extremely  well,  and  to  have  a  style  of  coiffure  which  requires 


SCHOOL-TIME.  131 

that  her  nurse  shall  occasionally  officiate  as  lady's-maid; 
when,  moreover,  her  dinner-parties  and  her  drawing-room 
show  that  effort  at  elegance  and  completeness  of  appoint- 
ment to  which  ordinary  women  might  imagine  a  large  income 
necessary,  it  would  be  unreasonable  to  expect  of  her  that  she 
should  employ  a  second  nurse,  or  even  act  as  a  nurse  herself. 
Mr.  Stelling  knew  better ;  he  saw  that  his  wife  did  wonders 
already,  and  was  proud  of  her.  It  was  certainly  not  the  best 
thing  in  the  world  for  young  Tulliver's  gait  to  carry  a  heavy 
child,  but  he  had  plenty  of  exercise  in  long  walks  with  him- 
self, and  next  half-year  Mr.  Stelling  would  see  about  having  a 
drilling-master.  Among  the  many  means  whereby  Mr.  Stel- 
ling intended  to  be  more  fortunate  than  the  bulk  of  his  fellow- 
men,  he  had  entirely  given  up  that  of  having  his  own  way  in 
his  own  house.  What  then  ?  He  had  married  "  as  kind  a  lit- 
tle soul  as  ever  breathed,"  according  to  Mr.  Riley,  who  had 
been  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Stelling's  blond  ringlets  and  smiling 
demeanour  throughout  her  maiden  life,  and  on  the  strength  of 
that  knowledge  would  have  been  ready  any  day  to  pronounce 
that  whatever  domestic  differences  might  arise  in  her  married 
life  must  be  entirely  Mr.  Stelling's  fault. 

If  Tom  had  had  a  worse  disposition,  he  would  certainly 
have  hated  the  little  cherub  Laura,  but  he  was  too  kind-hearted 
a  lad  for  that ;  there  was  too  much  in  him  of  the  fibre  that 
turns  to  true  manliness,  and  to  protecting  pity  for  the  weak. 
I  am  afraid  he  hated  Mrs.  Stelling,  and  contracted  a  lasting 
dislike  to  pale  blond  ringlets  and  broad  plaits,  as  directly  asso- 
ciated with  haughtiness  of  manner,  and  a  frequent  reference  to 
other  people's  "  duty."  But  he  could  n't  help  playing  with 
little  Laura,  and  liking  to  amuse  her ;  he  even  sacrificed  his 
percussion-caps  for  her  sake,  in  despair  of  their  ever  serving 
a  greater  purpose,  —  thinking  the  small  flash  and  bang  would 
delight  her,  and  thereby  drawing  down  on  himself  a  rebuke  from 
Mrs.  Stelling  for  teaching  her  child  to  play  with  fire.  Laura 
was  a  sort  of  playfellow  —  and  oh,  how  Tom  longed  for  play- 
fellows !  In  his  secret  heart  he  yearned  to  have  Maggie  with 
him,  and  was  almost  ready  to  dote  on  her  exasperating  acts  of 
forgetfulness ;  though,  when  he  was  at  home,  he  always  repre- 
sented it  as  a  great  favour  on  his  part  to  let  Maggie  trot  by  his 
side  on  his  pleasure  excursions. 

A.nd  before  this  dreary  half-year  was  ended,  Maggie  actually 
caaie.  Mrs.  Stelling  had  given  a  general  invitation  for  the  lit- 
tle girl  to  come  and  stay  with  her  brother  ;  so  when  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver  drove  over  to  King's  Lorton  late  in  October,  Maggie  came 


132  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

too,  with  the  sense  that  she  was  taking  a  great  journey,  and 
beginning  to  see  the  world.  It  was  .Mr.  Tnlliver's  lirst  visit  to 
see  Tom,  for  the  lad  must  learn  not  to  think  too  much  about 
home. 

"Well,  my  lad,"  he  said  to  Tom,  when  Mr.  Stelling  had  left 
the  room  to  announce  the  arrival  to  his  Avife,  and  Maggie  had 
begun  to  kiss  Tom  freely,  "you  look  rarely!  School  agrees 
with  you." 

Tom  wished  he  had  looked  rather  ill. 

"I  don't  think  I  am  well,  father,"  said  Tom  ;  "I  wish  you  M 
ask  Mr.  Stelling  not  to  let  me  do  Euclid ;  it  brings  on  the 
toothache,  I  think." 

(The  toothache  was  the  only  malady  to  which  Tom  had  ever 
been  subject.) 

"  Euclid,  my  lad,  —  why,  what 's  that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  ;  it 's  definitions,  and  axioms,  and  tri- 
angles, and  things.  It 's  a  book  I  've  got  to  learn  in  —  there  's 
no  sense  in  it." 

"  Go,  go  !  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  reprovingly  ;  "  you  must  n't 
say  so.  You  must  learn  what  your  master  tells  you.  He 
knows  what  it 's  right  for  you  to  learn." 

"I'll  help  you  now,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  little  air  of 
patronising  consolation.  "  I  'm  come  to  stay  ever  so  long,  if 
Mrs.  Stelling  asks  me.  I  've  brought  my  box  and  my  pina- 
fores, have  n't  I,  father  ?  " 

"  You  help  me,  you  silly  little  thing ! "  said  Tom,  in  such  high 
spirits  at  this  announcement  that  he  quite  enjoyed  the  idea  of 
confounding  Maggie  by  showing  her  a  page  of  Euclid.  "  I 
should  like  to  see  you  doing  one  of  my  lessons  !  Why,  I  learn 
Latin,  too !  Girls  never  learn  such  things.  They  're  too 
silly." 

"  I  know  what  Latin  is  very  well,"  said  Maggie,  confidently. 
"  Latin 's  a  language.  There  are  Latin  words  in  the  Diction- 
ary. There  's  bonus,  a  gift." 

"Now,  you're  just  wrong  there,  Miss  Maggie!"  said  Tom, 
secretly  astonished.  "  You  think  you  're  very  wise  !  But 
'  bonus '  means  '  good,'  as  it  happens,  — bonus,  bona,  bonum." 

"  Well,  that 's  no  reason  why  it  should  n't  mean  '  gift,'  "  said 
Maggie,  stoutly.  "  It  may  mean  several  things ;  almost  every 
word  does.  There  's  '  lawn,'  —  it  means  the  glass-plot,  as  well 
as  the  stuff  pocket-handkerchiefs  are  made  of." 

"  Well  done,  little  'un,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  laughing,  while 
Tom  felt  rather  disgusted  with  Maggie's  knowingness,  though 
beyond  measure  cheerful  at  the  thought  that  she  was  going  to 


SCHOOL-TIME.  133 

stay  with  him.  Her  conceit  would  soon  be  overawed  by  the 
actual  inspection  of  his  books. 

Mrs.  Stelling,  in  her  pressing  invitation,  did  not  mention  a 
longer  time  than  a  week  for  Maggie's  stay ;  but  Mr.  Stelling, 
who  took  her  between  his  knees,  and  asked  her  where  she  stole 
her  dark  eyes  from,  insisted  that  she  must  stay  a  fortnight. 
Maggie  thought  Mr.  Stelling  was  a  charming  man,  and  Mr.  Tul- 
liver  was  quite  proud  to  leave  his  little  wench  where  she  would 
have  an  opportunity  of  showing  her  cleverness  to  appreciating 
strangers.  So  it  was  agreed  that  she  should  not  be  fetched 
home  till  the  end  of  the  fortnight. 

"ISTow,  then,  come  with  me  into  the  study,  Maggie,"  said 
Tom,  as  their  father  drove  away.  "  What  do  you  shake  and 
toss  your  head  now  for,  you  silly  ?  "  he  continued  ;  for  though 
her  hair  was  now  under  a  new  dispensation,  and  was  brushed 
smoothly  behind  her  ears,  she  seemed  still  in  imagination  to 
be  tossing  it  out  of  her  eyes.  "  It  makes  you  look  as  if  you 
were  crazy. " 

"Oh,  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Maggie,  impatiently.  "Don't 
tease  me,  Tom.  Oh,  what  books  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  saw 
the  bookcases  in  the  study.  "  How  I  should  like  to  have  as 
many  books  as  that !  " 

"  Why,  you  could  n't  read  one  of  'em,"  said  Tom,  trium- 
phantly. "  They  're  all  Latin." 

"  No,  they  are  n't,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  can  read  the  back 
of  this,  —  '  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Koman 
Empire.'  " 

"  Well,  what  does  that  mean  ?  You  don't  know,"  said  Tom, 
wagging  his  head. 

"  But  I  could  soon  find  out,"  said  Maggie,  scornfully. 

"  Why,  how  ?  " 

"  I  should  look  inside,  and  see  what  it  was  about." 

"You'd  better  not,  Miss  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  seeing  her 
hand  on  the  volume.  "  Mr.  Stelling  lets  nobody  touch  his 
books  without  leave,  and  /  shall  catch  it,  if  you  take  it  out." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  Let  me  see  all  your  books,  then,"  said 
Maggie,  turning  to  throw  her  arms  round  Tom's  neck,  and 
rub  his  cheek  with  her  small  round  nose. 

Tom,  in  the  gladness  of  his  heart  at  having  dear  old  Maggie 
to  dispute  with  and  crow  over  again,  seized  her  round  the 
waist,  and  began  to  jump  with  her  round  the  large  library 
table.  Away  they  jumped  with  more  and  more  vigour,  till 
Maggie's  hair  flew  from  behind  her  ears,  and  twirled  about  like 
an  animated  mop.  But  the  revolutions  round  the  table 


134  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

became  more  and  more  irregular  in  their  sweep,  till  at  last 
reaching  Mr.  Stelling's  reading-stand,  they  sent  it  thundering 
down  with  its  heavy  lexicons  to  the  floor.  Happily  it  was 
the  ground-floor,  and  the  study  was  a  one-storied  wing  to  the 
house,  so  that  the  downfall  made  no  alarming  resonance, 
though  Tom  stood  dizzy  and  aghast  for  a  few  minutes, 
dreading  the  appearance  of  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Stelling. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Maggie,"  said  Tom  at  last,  lifting  up  the  stand. 
"  we  must  keep  quiet  here,  you  know.  If  we  break  anything 
Mrs.  Stelling  '11  make  us  cry  peccavi." 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  said  Maggie. 

"Oh,  it's  the  Latin  for  a  good  scolding,"  said  Tom,  not 
without  some  pride  in  his  knowledge. 

"  Is  she  a  cross  woman  ?  "  said  Maggie. 

"  I  believe  you  !  "  said  Tom,  with  an  emphatic  nod. 

"  I  think  all  women  are  crosser  than  men,"  said  Maggie. 
"Aunt  Glegg's  a  great  deal  crosser  than  uncle  Glegg,  and 
mother  scolds  me  more  than  father  does." 

"  Well,  you  'II  be  a  woman  some  day,"  said  Tom,  "  so  you 
needn't  talk." 

"  But  I  shall  be  a  clever  woman,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  toss. 

"  Oh,  I  daresay,  and  a  nasty  conceited  thing.  Everybody  '11 
hate  you." 

"  But  you  ought  n't  to  hate  me,  Tom ;  it  '11  be  very  wicked 
of  you,  for  I  shall  be  your  sister." 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  're  a  nasty  disagreeable  thing  I  shall  hate 
you." 

"Oh  but,  Torn,  you  won't!  I  sha'n't  be  disagreeable.  I 
shall  be  very  good  to  you,  and  I  shall  be  good  to  everybody. 
You  won't  hate  me  really,  will  you,  Tom?  " 

"  Oh,  bother !  never  mind !  Come,  it 's  time  for  me  to  learn 
my  lessons.  See  here !  what  I  've  got  to  do,"  said  Tom, 
drawing  Maggie  towards  him  and  showing  her  his  theorem, 
while  she  pushed  her  hair  behind  her  ears,  and  prepared  her- 
self to  prove  her  capability  of  helping  him  in  Euclid.  She 
began  to  read  with  full  confidence  in  her  own  powers,  but 
presently,  becoming  quite  bewildered,  her  face  flushed  with 
irritation.  It  was  unavoidable ;  she  must  confess  her  incom- 
petency,  and  she  was  not  fond  of  humiliation. 

"  It 's  nonsense  ! "  she  said,  "  and  very  ugly  stuff ;  nobody 
need  want  to  make  it  out." 

"  Ah,  there  now,  Miss  Maggie ! "  said  Tom,  drawing  the 
book  away,  and  wagging  his  head  at  her,  "you  see  you  're  not 
so  clever  as  you  thought  you  were." 


SCHOOL-TIME.  135 

"  Oh,"  said  Maggie,  pouting,  "  I  daresay  I  could  make  it 
out,  if  I  'd  learned  what  goes  before,  as  you  have." 

"  But  that 's  what  you  just  could  n't,  Miss  Wisdom,"  said 
Tom.  "  For  it 's  all  the  harder  when  you  know  what  goes 
before ;  for  then  you  've  got  to  say  what  definition  3  is,  and 
what  axiom  V.  is.  But  get  along  with  you  now ;  I  must  go 
on  with  this.  Here 's  the  Latin  Grammar.  See  what  you  can 
make  of  that." 

Maggie  found  the  Latin  Grammar  quite  soothing  after  her 
mathematical  mortification ;  for  she  delighted  in  new  words, 
and  quickly  found  that  there  was  an  English  Key  at  the  end, 
which  would  make  her  very  wise  about  Latin,  at  slight 
expense.  She  presently  made  up  her  mind  to  skip  the  rules 
in  the  Syntax,  the  examples  became  so  absorbing.  These 
mysterious  sentences,  snatched  from  an  unknown  context, 
—  like  strange  horns  of  beasts,  and  leaves  of  unknown  plants, 
brought  from  some  far-off  region,  —  gave  boundless  scope  to 
her  imagination,  and  were  all  the  more  fascinating  because 
they  were  in  a  peculiar  tongue  of  their  own,  which  she  could 
learn  to  interpret.  It  was  really  very  interesting,  the  Latin 
Grammar  that  Tom  had  said  no  girls  could  learn ;  and  she 
was  proud  because  she  found  it  interesting.  The  most  frag- 
mentary examples  were  her  favourites.  Mors  omnibus  est 
communis  would  have  been  jejune,  only  she  liked  to  know  the 
Latin ;  but  the  fortunate  gentleman  whom  every  one  congrat- 
ulated because  he  had  a  son  "  endowed  with  such  a  disposi- 
tion" afforded  her  a  great  deal  of  pleasant  conjecture,  and 
she  was  quite  lost  in  the  "  thick  grove  penetrable  by  no  star," 
when  Tom  called  out,  — 

"  Now,  then,  Magsie,  give  us  the  Grammar ! " 

"  Oh,  Tom,  it 's  such  a  pretty  book ! "  she  said,  as  she 
jumped  out  of  the  large  arm-chair  to  give  it  him ;  "  it 's  much 
prettier  than  the  Dictionary.  I  could  learn  Latin  very  soon. 
I  don't  think  it 's  at  all  hard." 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  've  been  doing,"  said  Tom ;  "  you  've 
been  reading  the  English  at  the  end.  Any  donkey  can  do  that." 

Tom  seized  the  book  and  opened  it  with  a  determined  and 
business-like  air,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  had  a  lesson  to 
learn  which  no  donkeys  would  find  themselves  equal  to.  Mag- 
gie, rather  piqued,  turned  to  the  bookcases  to  amuse  herself 
with  puzzling  out  the  titles. 

Presently  Tom  called  to  her :  "  Here,  Magsie,  come  and  hear 
if  I  can  say  this.  Stand  at  that  end  of  the  table,  where  Mr. 
Stalling  sits  when  he  hears  me." 


136  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Maggie  obeyed,  and  took  the  open  book. 

"  Where  do  you  begin,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  begin  at  '  Ai^pellativa  arborum,'  because  I  say  all  over 
again  what  I  've  been  learning  this  week." 

Tom  sailed  along  pretty  well  for  three  lines ;  and  Maggie 
was  beginning  to  forget  her  office  of  prompter  in  speculating 
as  to  what  mas  could  mean,  which  came  twice  over,  when  he 
stuck  fast  at  Sunt  etiam  volucrum. 

"  Don't  tell  me,  Maggie ;  Sunt  etiam  volucrum  —  Sunt  etiam 
volucrum  —  ut  ostrea,  cetus  —  " 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  opening  her  mouth  and  shaking  her  head. 

"  Sunt  etiam  volucrum,"  said  Tom,  very  slowly,  as  if  the 
next  words  might  be  expected  to  come  sooner  when  he  gave 
them  this  strong  hint  that  they  were  waited  for. 

"  C,  e,  u,"  said  Maggie,  getting  impatient. 

"  Oh,  I  know  —  hold  your  tongue,"  said  Tom.  "  Ceu  passer, 
hit-undo;  Ferarum — ferarum — "  Tom  took  his  pencil  and 
made  several  hard  dots  with  it  on  his  book-cover  —  "fe- 
rarum —  " 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  "  what  a  time  you 
are!  Ut  — " 

"  Ut  ostrea  —  " 

"  17 o,  no,"  said  Maggie,  "  ut  tigris  —  " 

"  Oh  yes,  now  I  can  do,"  said  Tom ;  "  it  was  tigris,  vulpes, 
I  'd  forgotten :  ut  tigris  vulpes ;  et  Piscium" 

With  some  further  stammering  and  repetition,  Tom  got 
through  the  next  few  lines. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said,  "the  next  is  what  I've  just  learned  for 
to-morrow.  Give  me  hold  of  the  book  a  minute." 

After  some  whispered  gabbling,  assisted  by  the  beating  of 
his  fist  on  the  table,  Tom  returned  the  book. 

" Mascula  nomina  in  a"  he  began. 

"No,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  "that  doesn't  come  next.  It's 
JNomen  non  creskens  genittivo  — " 

"  Creskens  genittivo  !  "  exclaimed  Tom,  with  a  derisive  laugh, 
for  Tom  had  learned  this  omitted  passage  for  his  yesterday's 
:esson,  and  a  young  gentleman  does  not  require  an  intimate 
or  extensive  acquaintance  with  Latin  before  he  can  feel  the 
pitiable  absurdity  of  a  false  quantity.  •'  Creskens  genittivo ! 
What  a  little  silly  you  are,  Maggie  ! " 

"  Well,  you  need  n't  laugh,  Tom,  for  you  did  n't  remember  it 
at  all.  1  'm  sure  it 's  spelt  so ;  how  was  I  to  know  ?  " 

"  Phee-e-e-h !  I  told  you  girls  could  n't  learn  Latin.  It 's 
Nomen  non  crescens  genitivo" 


SCHOOL-TIME.  137 

""Very  well,  then,"  said  Maggie,  pouting.  "I  can  say  that 
as  well  as  you  can.  And  you  don't  mind  your  stops.  For 
you  ought  to  stop  twice  as  long  at  a  semicolon  as  you  do  at  a 
comma,  and  you  make  the  longest  stops  where  there  ought  to 
be  no  stop  at  all." 

"  Oh,  well,  don't  chatter.     Let  me  go  on." 

They  were  presently  fetched  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing in  the  drawing-room,  and  Maggie  became  so  animated 
with  Mr.  Stelling,  who,  she  felt  sure,  admired  her  cleverness, 
that  Tom  was  rather  amazed  and  alarmed  at  her  audacity. 
But  she  was  suddenly  subdued  by  Mr.  Stelling's  alluding  to  a 
little  girl  of  whom  he  had  heard  that  she  once  ran  away  to 
the  gypsies. 

"  What  a  very  odd  little  girl  that  must  be  ! "  said  Mrs.  Stel- 
ling, meaning  to  be  playful ;  but  a  playfulness  that  turned  on 
her  supposed  oddity  was  not  at  all  to  Maggie's  taste.  She 
feared  that  Mr.  Stelling,  after  all,  did  not  think  much  of  her, 
and  went  to  bed  in  rather  low  spirits.  Mrs.  Stelling,  she  felt, 
looked  at  her  as  if  she  thought  her  hair  was  very  ugly  because 
it  hung  down  straight  behind. 

Nevertheless  it  was  a  very  happy  fortnight  to  Maggie,  this 
visit  to  Tom.  She  was  allowed  to  be  in  the  study  while  he 
had  his  lessons,  and  in  her  various  readings  got  very  deep 
into  the  examples  in  the  Latin  Grammar.  The  astronomer 
who  hated  women  generally,  caused  her  so  much  puzzling 
speculation  that  she  one  day  asked  Mr.  Stelling  if  all  astrono- 
mers hated  women,  or  whether  it  was  only  this  particular 
astronomer.  But  forestalling  his  answer,  she  said, — 

"  I  suppose  it 's  all  astronomers ;  because,  you  know,  they 
live  up  in  high  towers,  and  if  the  women  came  there  they 
might  talk  and  hinder  them  from  looking  at  the  stars." 

Mr.  Stelling  liked  her  prattle  immensely,  and  they  were  on 
the  best  terms.  She  told  Tom  she  should  like  to  go  to  school 
to  Mr.  Stelling,  as  he  did,  and  learn  just  the  same  things. 
She  knew  she  could  do  Euclid,  for  she  had  looked  into  it 
again,  and  she  saw  what  ABC  meant ;  they  were  the  names 
of  the  lines. 

"  I  'm  sure  you  could  n't  do  it,  now,"  said  Tom ;  "  and  I  'li 
just  ask  Mr.  Stelling  if  you  could." 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  the  little  conceited  minx,  "I'll  ask 
him  myself." 

"  Mr.  Stelling,"  she  said,  that  same  evening  when  they  were 
in  the  drawing-room,  "couldn't  I  do  Euclid,  and  all  Tom'a 
lessons,  if  you  were  to  teach  me  instead  of  him  ?  " 


138  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"No,  you  couldn't,"  said  Tom,  indignantly.  "Girls  can't 
do  Euclid  5  can  they,  sir  ?  " 

"  They  can  pick  up  a  little  of  everything,  I  daresay,"  said 
Mr.  Stelling.  "  They  've  a  great  deal  of  superficial  cleverness ; 
but  they  could  n't  go  far  into  anything.  They  're  quick  and 
shallow." 

Tom,  delighted  with  this  verdict,  telegraphed  his  triumph 
by  wagging  his  head  at  Maggie,  behind  Mr.  Stelling's  chair. 
As  for  Maggie,  she  had  hardly  ever  been  so  mortified.  She 
had  been  so  proud  to  be  called  "  quick "  all  her  little  life, 
and  now  it  appeared  that  this  quickness  was  the  brand  of 
inferiority.  It  would  have  been  better  to  be  slow,  like 
Tom. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  Miss  Maggie  !  "  said  Tom,  when  they  were  alone  ; 
"  you  see  it 's  not  such  a  fine  thing  to  be  quick.  You  '11  never 
go  far  into  anything,  you  know." 

And  Maggie  was  so  oppressed  by  this  dreadful  destiny  that 
she  had  no  spirit  for  a  retort. 

But  when  this  small  apparatus  of  shallow  quickness  was 
fetched  away  in  the  gig  by  Luke,  and  the  study  wns  once  more 
quite  lonely  for  Tom,  he  missed  her  grievously.  He  had  really 
been  brighter,  and  had  got  through  his  lessons  better,  since  she 
had  been  there ;  and  she  had  asked  Mr.  Stelling  so  many  ques- 
tions about  the  Roman  Empire,  and  whether  there  really  ever 
was  a  man  who  said,  in  Latin,  "  I  would  not  buy  it  for  a  farthing 
or  a  rotten  nut,"  or  whether  that  had  only  been  turned  into  Latin, 
that  Tom  had  actually  come  to  a  dim  understanding  of  the  fact 
that  there  had  once  been  people  upon  the  earth  who  were  so 
fortunate  as  to  know  Latin  without  learning  it  through  the 
medium  of  the  Eton  Grammar.  This  luminous  idea  was  a 
great  addition  to  his  historical  acquirements  during  this  half- 
year,  which  were  otherwise  confined  to  an  epitomised  history 
of  the  Jews. 

But  the  dreary  half-year  did  come  to  an  end.  How  glad 
Torn  was  to  see  the  last  yellow  leaves  fluttering  before  the 
"id  wind!  The  dark  afternoons  and  the  first  December 
snow  seemed  to  him  far  livelier  than  the  August  sunshine; 
and  that  he  might  make  himself  the  surer  about  the  flight 
of  the  days  that  were  carrying  him  homeward,  he  stuck 
twenty-one  sticks  deep  in  a  corner  of  the  garden,  when  he  was 
three  weeks  from  the  holidays,  and  pulled  one  up  every  day 
with  a  great  wrench,  throwing  it  to  a  distance  with  a  vigour 
of  will  which  would  have  carried  it  to  limbo,  if  it  had  been  in 
the  nature  of  sticks  to  travel  so  far. 


SCHOOL-TIME.  139 

But  it  was  worth  purchasing,  even  at  the  heavy  price  of  the 
Latin  Grammar,  the  happiness  of  seeing  the  bright  light  in 
the  parlour  at  home,  as  the  gig  passed  noiselessly  over  the 
snow-covered  bridge  ;  the  happiness  of  passing  from  the  cold 
air  to  the  warmth  and  the  kisses  and  the  smiles  of  that  fa- 
miliar hearth,  where  the  pattern  of  the  rug  and  the  grate  and 
the  fire-irons  were  "  first  ideas  "  that  it  was  no  more  possible 
to  criticise  than  the  solidity  and  extension  of  matter.  There 
is  no  sense  of  ease  like  the  ease  we  felt  in  those  scenes  where 
we  were  born,  where  objects  became  dear  to  us  before  we  had 
known  the  labour  of  choice,  and  where  the  outer  world  seemed 
only  an  extension  of  our  own  personality ;  we  accepted  and 
loved  it  as  we  accepted  our  own  sense  of  existence  and 
our  own  limbs.  Very  commonplace,  even  ugly,  that  furniture 
of  our  early  home  might  look  if  it  were  put  up  to  auction ;  an 
improved  taste  in  upholstery  scorns  it ;  and  is  not  the  striving 
after  something  better  and  better  in  our  surroundings  the  grand 
characteristic  that  distinguishes  man  from  the  brute,  or,  to  sat- 
isfy a  scrupulous  accuracy  of  definition,  that  distinguishes  the 
British  man  from  the  foreign  brute  ?  But  heaven  knows  where 
that  striving  might  lead  us,  if  our  affections  had  not  a  trick  of 
twining  round  those  old  inferior  things  ;  if  the  loves  and  sanc- 
tities of  our  life  had  no  deep  immovable  roots  in  memory. 
One's  delight  in  an  elderberry  bush  overhanging  the  confused 
leafage  of  a  hedgerow  bank,  as  a  more  gladdening  sight  than 
the  finest  cistus  or  fuchsia  spreading  itself  on  the  softest 
undulating  turf,  is  an  entirely  unjustifiable  preference  to 
a  nursery-gardener,  or  to  any  of  those  severely  regulated 
minds  who  are  free  from  the  weakness  of  any  attachment  that 
does  not  rest  on  a  demonstrable  superiority  of  qualities.  And 
there  is  no  better  reason  for  preferring  this  elderberry  bush 
than  that  it  stirs  an  early  memory ;  that  it  is  no  novelty  in 
my  life,  speaking  to  me  merely  through  my  present  sensibili- 
ties to  form  and  color,  but  the  long  companion  of  my  existence, 
that  wove  itself  into  my  joys  when  joys  were  vivid. 


140  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

CHAPTER   II. 

THE    CHRISTMAS    HOLIDAYS. 

FINE  old  Christmas,  with  the  snowy  hair  and  ruddy  face, 
had  done  his  duty  that  year  in  the  noblest  fashion,  and  had 
set  off  his  rich  gifts  of  warmth  and  colour  with  all  the  height- 
ening contrast  of  frost  and  snow. 

Snow  lay  on  the  croft  and  river-bank  in  undulations  softer 
than  the  limbs  of  infancy ;  it  lay  with  the  neatliest  finished 
border  on  every  sloping  roof,  making  the  dark-red  gables 
stand  out  with  a  new  depth  of  colour ;  it  weighed  heavily 
on  the  laurels  and  fir-trees,  till  it  fell  from  them  with  a  shud- 
dering sound ;  it  clothed  the  rough  turnip-field  with  whiteness, 
and  made  the  sheep  look  like  dark  blotches ;  the  gates  were 
all  blocked  up  with  the  sloping  drifts,  and  here  and  there 
a  disregarded  four-footed  beast  stood  as  if  petrified  "  in  unre- 
cumbent  sadness ; "  there  was  no  gleam,  no  shadow,  for  the 
heavens,  too,  were  one  still,  pale  cloud ;  no  sound  or  motion  in 
anything  but  the  dark  river  that  flowed  and  moaned  like  an 
unresting  sorrow.  But  old  Christmas  smiled  as  he  laid  this 
cruel-seeming  spell  on  the  outdoor  world,  for  he  meant  to 
light  up  home  with  new  brightness,  to  deepen  all  the  richness 
of  indoor  colour,  and  give  a  keener  edge  of  delight  to  the 
warm  fragrance  of  food ;  he  meant  to  prepare  a  sweet  impris- 
onment that  would  strengthen  the  primitive  fellowship  of  kin- 
dred, and  make  the  sunshine  of  familiar  human  faces  as 
welcome  as  the  hidden  day-star.  His  kindness  fell  but  hardly 
on  the  homeless,  —  fell  but  hardly  on  the  homes  where  the 
hearth  was  not  very  warm,  and  where  the  food  had  little 
fragrance ;  where  the  human  faces  had  no  sunshine  in  them, 
'rut  rather  the  leaden,  blank-eyed  gaze  of  unexpectant  want. 
]-Ii it  the  fine  old  season  meant  well ;  and  if  he  has  not  learned 
the  secret  how  to  bless  men  impartially,  it  is  because  his 
father  Time,  with  ever-unrelenting  purpose,  still  hides  that 
secret  in  his  own  mighty,  slow-beating  heart. 

And  yet  this  Christmas  day,  in  spite  of  Tom's  fresh  delight 
in  home,  was  not,  he  thought,  somehow  or  other,  quite  so  happy 
as  it  had  always  been  before.  The  red  berries  were  just  as 
abundant  on  the  holly,  and  he  and  Maggie  had  dressed  all  the 
windows  and  mantelpieces  and  picture-frames  on  Christmas 


SCHOOL-TIME.  141 

eve  with  as  much  taste  as  ever,  wedding  the  thick-set  scarlet 
clusters  with  branches  of  the  black-berried  ivy.  There  had 
been  singing  under  the  windows  after  midnight,  —  supernatural 
singing,  Maggie  always  felt,  in  spite  of  Tom's  contemptuous 
insistence  that  the  singers  were  old  Patch,  the  parish  clerk,  and 
the  rest  of  the  church  choir ;  she  trembled  with  awe  when  their 
carolling  broke  in  upon  her  dreams,  and  the  image  of  men  in 
ftistian  clothes  was  always  thrust  away  by  the  vision  of  angels 
resting  on  the  parted  cloud.  The  midnight  chant  had  helped  as 
usual  to  lift  the  morning  above  the  level  of  common  days  ;  and 
then  there  was  the  smell  of  hot  toast  and  ale  from  the  kitchen, 
at  the  breakfast  hour  ;  the  favourite  anthem,  the  green  boughs, 
and  the  short  sermon  gave  the  appropriate  festal  character  to 
the  church-going ;  and  aunt  and  uncle  Moss,  with  all  their 
seven  children,  were  looking  like  so  many  reflectors  of  the 
bright  parlour-fire,  when  the  church-goers  came  back,  stamp- 
ing the  snow  from  their  feet.  The  plum-pudding  was  of  the 
same  handsome  roundness  as  ever,  and  came  in  with  the  sym- 
bolic blue  flames  around  it,  as  if  it  had  been  heroically  snatched 
from  the  nether  fires,  into  which  it  had  been  thrown  by  dys- 
peptic Puritans ;  the  dessert  was  as  splendid  as  ever,  with  its 
golden  oranges,  brown  nuts,  and  the  crystalline  light  and  dark 
of  apple-jelly  and  damson  cheese ;  in  all  these  things  Christmas 
was  as  it  had  always  been  since  Tom  could  remember ;  it  was 
only  distinguished,  if  by  anything,  by  superior  sliding  and 
snowballs. 

Christmas  was  cheery,  but  not  so  Mr.  Tulliver.  He  was 
irate  and  defiant ;  and  Tom,  though  he  espoused  his  father's 
quarrels  and  shared  his  father's  sense  of  injury,  was  not  with- 
out some  of  the  feeling  that  oppressed  Maggie  when  Mr.  Tul- 
liver got  louder  and  more  angry  in  narration  and  assertion 
with  the  increased  leisure  of  dessert.  The  attention  that  Tom 
might  have  concentrated  on  his  nuts  and  wine  was  distracted 
by  a  sense  that  there  were  rascally  enemies  in  the  world,  and 
that  the  business  of  grown-up  life  could  hardly  be  conducted 
without  a  good  deal  of  quarrelling.  Now,  Tom  was  not  fond  of 
quarrelling,  unless  it  could  soon  be  put  an  end  to  by  a  fair 
stand-up  fight  with  an  adversary  whom  he  had  every  chance 
of  thrashing ;  and  his  father's  irritable  talk  made  him  uncom- 
fortable, though  he  never  accounted  to  himself  for  the  feeling, 
or  conceived  the  notion  that  his  father  was  faulty  in  this 
respect. 

The  particular  embodiment  of  the  evil  principle  now  excit- 
ing Mr.  Tulliver's  determined  resistance  was  Mr.  Pivart,  who, 


142  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

having  lands  higher  up  the  Eipple,  was  taking  measures  for 
their  irrigation,  which  either  were,  or  would  be,  or  were  bound 
to  be  (on  the  principle  that  water  was  water),  an  infringement 
on  Mr.  Tulliver's  legitimate  share  of  water-power.  Dix,  who 
had  a  mill  on  the  stream,  was  a  feeble  auxiliary  of  Old  Harry 
compared  with  Fivart.  Dix  had  been  brought  to  his  senses  by 
arbitration,  and  Wakem's  advice  had  not  carried  him  far.  No ; 
Dix,  Mr.  Tulliver  considered,  had  been  as  good  as  nowhere  in 
point  of  law ;  and  in  the  intensity  of  his  indignation  against 
Fivart,  his  contempt  for  a  baffled  adversary  like  Dix  began  to 
wear  the  air  of  a  friendly  attachment.  He  had  no  male  audi- 
ence to-day  except  Mr.  Moss,  who  knew  nothing,  as  he  said, 
of  the  "natur'  o'  mills,"  and  could  only  assent  to  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver's arguments  on  the  a  priori  ground  of  family  relationship 
and  monetary  obligation ;  but  Mr.  Tulliver  did  not  talk  with 
the  futile  intention  of  convincing  his  audience,  he  talked  to 
relieve  himself;  while  good  Mr.  Moss  made  strong  efforts  to 
keep  his  eyes  wide  open,  in  spite  of  the  sleepiness  which  an 
unusually  good  dinner  produced  in  his  hard-worked  frame. 
Mrs.  Moss,  more  alive  to  the  subject,  and  interested  in  every- 
thing that  affected  her  brother,  listened  and  put  in  a  word  as 
often  as  maternal  preoccupations  allowed. 

"  Why,  Fivart 's  a  new  name  hereabout,  brother,  is  n't  it  ?  " 
she  said ;  "  he  did  n't  own  the  land  in  father's  time,  nor  yours 
either,  before  I  was  married." 

"New  name  ?  Yes,  I  should  think  it  is  a  new  name,"  said 
Mr.  Tulliver,  with  angry  emphasis.  "  Dorlcote  Mill 's  been  in 
our  family  a  hundred  year  and  better,  and  nobody  ever  heard 
of  a  Fivart  meddling  with  the  river,  till  this  fellow  came  and 
bought  Bincome's  farm  out  of  hand,  before  anybody  else  could 
so  much  as  say  '  snap.'  But  I  '11  Pivart  him  !  "  added  Mr.  Tul- 
liver, lifting  his  glass  with  a  sense  that  he  had  defined  his 
resolution  in  an  unmistakable  manner. 

"You  won't  be  forced  to  go  to  law  with  him,  I  hope, 
brother  ? "  said  Mrs.  Moss,  with  some  anxiety. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  be  forced  to ;  but  I  know  what 
I  shall  force  him  to,  with  his  dykes  and  erigations,  if  there  's 
any  law  to  be  brought  to  bear  o'  the  right  side.  I  know  well 
enough  who  's  at  the  bottom  of  it ;  he 's  got  Wakem  to  back 
him  and  egg  him  on.  I  know  Wakem  tells  him  the  law  can't 
touch  him  for  it,  but  there  's  folks  can  handle  the  law  besides 
Wakem.  It  takes  a  big  raskil  to  beat  him ;  but  there 's  bigger 
to  be  found,  as  know  more  o'  th'  ins  and  outs  o'  the  law,  else 
how  came  Wakem  to  lose  Brumley's  suit  for  him  ?  " 


SCHOOL-TIME.  143 

Mr.  Tulliver  was  a  strictly  honest  man,  and  proud  of  being 
honest,  but  he  considered  that  in  law  the  ends  of  justice  could 
only  be  achieved  by  employing  a  stronger  knave  to  frustrate  a 
weaker.  Law  was  a  sort  of  cock-fight,  in  which  it  was  the 
business  of  injured  honesty  to  get  a  game  bird  with  the  best 
pluck  and  the  strongest  spurs. 

"  Gore  's  no  fool ;  you  need  n't  tell  me  that,"  he  observed 
presently,  in  a  pugnacious  tone,  as  if  poor  Gritty  had  been 
urging  that  lawyer's  capabilities ;  "  but,  you  see,  he  is  n't  up 
to  the  law  as  Wakem  is.  And  water 's  a  very  particular  thing ; 
you  can't  pick  it  up  with  a  pitchfork.  That 's  why  it 's 
been  nuts  to  Old  Harry  and  the  lawyers.  It 's  plain  enough 
what 's  the  rights  and  the  wrongs  of  water,  if  you  look  at  it 
straightforrard ;  for  a  river 's  a  river,  and  if  you  've  got  a 
mill,  you  must  have  water  to  turn  it ;  and  it 's  no  use  telling 
me  Pivart's  erigation  and  nonsense  won't  stop  my  wheel ;  I 
knoAv  what  belongs  to  water  better  than  that.  Talk  to  me  o' 
what  th'  engineers  say !  I  say  it 's  common  sense,  as  Pivart's 
dykes  must  do  me  an  injury.  But  if  that 's  their  engineering, 
I  '11  put  Tom  to  it  by-and-by,  and  he  shall  see  if  he  can't  find 
a  bit  more  sense  in  th'  engineering  business  than  what  that 
comes  to." 

Tom,  looking  round  with  some  anxiety  at  this  announcement 
of  his  prospects,  unthinkingly  withdrew  a  small  rattle  he  was 
amusing  baby  Moss  with,  whereupon  she,  being  a  baby  that 
knew  her  own  mind  with  remarkable  clearness,  instantane- 
ously expressed  her  sentiments  in  a  piercing  yell,  and  was  not 
to  be  appeased  even  by  the  restoration  of  the  rattle,  feeling 
apparently  that  the  original  wrong  of  having  it  taken  from 
her  remained  in  all  its  force.  Mrs.  Moss  hurried  away  with 
her  into  another  room,  and  expressed  to  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who 
accompanied  her,  the  conviction  that  the  dear  child  had  good 
reasons  for  crying;  implying  that  if  it  was  supposed  to  be 
the  rattle  that  baby  clamoured  for,  she  was  a  misunderstood 
baby.  The  thoroughly  justifiable  yell  being  quieted,  Mrs. 
Moss  looked  at  her  sister-in-law  and  said,  — 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  see  brother  so  put  out  about  this  water  work." 

"  It 's  your  brother's  way,  Mrs.  Moss ;  I  'd  never  anything 
o'  that  sort  before  I  was  married,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  a 
half-implied  reproach.  She  always  spoke  of  her  husband  as 
"  your  brother "  to  Mrs.  Moss  in  any  case  when  his  line  of 
conduct  was  not  matter  of  pure  admiration.  Amiable  Mrs. 
Tulliver,  who  was  never  angry  in  her  life,  had  yet  her  mild 
share  of  that  spirit  without  which  she  could  hardly  have  been 


144  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

at  once  a  Dodson  and  a  woman.  Being  always  on  the  defensive 
towards  her  own  sisters,  it  was  natural  that  she  should  be 
keenly  conscious  of  her  superiority,  even  as  the  weakest  Dod- 
son, over  a  husband's  sister,  who,  besides  being  poorly  off,  and 
inclined  to  "  hang  on  "  her  brother,  had  the  good-natured  sub- 
missiveness  of  a  large,  easy-tempered,  untidy,  prolific  woman, 
with  affection  enough  in  her  not  only  for  her  own  husband 
and  abundant  children,  but  for  any  number  of  collateral 
relations. 

"  I  hope  and  pray  he  won't  go  to  law,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  "  for 
there  's  never  any  knowing  where  that  '11  end.  And  the  right 
does  n't  allays  win.  This  Mr.  Pivart  's  a  rich  man,  by  what 
I  can  make  out,  and  the  rich  mostly  get  things  their  own 
way." 

"  As  to  that,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  stroking  her  dress  down, 
"  I  've  seen  what  riches  are  in  my  own  family ;  for  my  sisters 
have  got  husbands  as  can  afford  to  do  pretty  much  what  they 
like.  But  I  think  sometimes  I  shall  be  drove  off  my  head 
with  the  talk  about  this  law  and  erigation ;  and  my  sisters  lay 
all  the  fault  to  me,  for  they  don't  know  what  it  is  to  marry  a 
man  like  your  brother  ;  how  should  they  ?  Sister  Pullet  has 
her  own  way  from  morning  till  night." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  "  I  don't  think  I  should  like  my  hus- 
band if  he  had  n't  got  any  wits  of  his  own,  and  I  had  to  find 
head-piece  for  him.  It 's  a  deal  easier  to  do  what  pleases 
one's  husband,  than  to  be  puzzling  what  else  one  should  do." 

"  If  people  come  to  talk  o'  doing  what  pleases  their  hus- 
bands," said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  a  faint  imitation  of  her  sister 
Glegg,  "I'm  sure  your  brother  might  have  waited  a  long 
while  before  he  'd  have  found  a  wife  that  'ud  have  let  him 
have  his  say  in  everything,  as  I  do.  It 's  nothing  but  law  and 
erigation  now,  from  when  we  first  get  up  in  the  morning  till 
we  go  to  bed  at  night ;  and  I  never  contradict  him ;  I  only 
say,  'Well,  Mr.  Tulliver,  do  as  you  like;  but  whativer  you 
do,  don't  go  to  law.' " 

Mrs.  Tulliver,  as  we  have  seen,  was  not  without  influence 
over  her  husband.  No  woman  is ;  she  can  always  incline  him 
to  do  either  what  she  wishes,  or  the  reverse ;  and  on  the  com- 
posite impulses  that  were  threatening  to  hurry  Mr.  Tulliver 
into  "law,"  Mrs.  Tulliver's  monotonous  pleading  had  doubt- 
less its  share  of  force ;  it  might  even  be  comparable  to  that 
proverbial  feather  which  has  the  credit  or  discredit  of  break- 
ing the  camel's  back ;  though,  on  a  strictly  impartial  view, 
the  blame  ought  rather  to  lie  with  the  previous  weight  of 


SCHOOL-TIME.  145 

feathers  which  had  already  placed  the  back  in  such  imminent 
peril  that  an  otherwise  innocent  feather  could  not  settle  on  it 
without  mischief.  Not  that  Mrs.  Tulliver's  feeble  beseeching 
could  have  had  this  feather's  weight  in  virtue  of  her  single 
personality ;  but  whenever  she  departed  from  entire  assent  to 
her  husband,  he  saw  in  her  the  representative  of  the  Dodson 
family ;  and  it  was  a  guiding  principle  with  Mr.  Tulliver  to 
let  the  Dodsons  know  that  they  were  not  to  domineer  over 
him,  or  —  more  specifically  —  that  a  male  Tulliver  was  far 
more  than  equal  to  four  female  Dodsons,  even  though  one  of 
them  was  Mrs.  Glegg. 

But  not  even  a  direct  argument  from  that  typical  Dodson 
female  herself  against  his  going  to  law  could  have  heightened 
his  disposition  towards  it  so  much  as  the  mere  thought  of 
Wakem,  continually  freshened  by  the  sight  of  the  too  able 
attorney  on  market-clays.  Wakem,  to  his  certain  knowledge, 
was  (metaphorically  speaking)  at  the  bottom  of  Pivart's  irri- 
gation ;  Wakem  had  tried  to  make  Dix  stand  out,  and  go  to 
law  about  the  dam  ;  it  was  unquestionably  Wakem  who  had 
caused  Mr.  Tulliver  to  lose  the  suit  about  the  right  of  road 
and  the  bridge  that  made  a  thoroughfare  of  his  land  for  every 
vagabond  who  preferred  an  opportunity  of  damaging  private 
property  to  walking  like  an  honest  man  along  the  highroad ; 
all  lawyers  were  more  or  less  rascals,  but  Wakem's  rascality 
was  of  that  peculiarly  aggravated  kind  which  placed  itself  in 
opposition  to  that  form  of  right  embodied  in  Mr.  Tulliver's 
interests  and  opinions.  And  as  an  extra  touch  of  bitterness, 
the  injured  miller  had  recently,  in  borrowing  the  five  hundred 
pounds,  been  obliged  to  carry  a  little  business  to  Wakem's 
office  on  his  own  account.  A  hook-nosed  glib  fellow !  as  cool 
as  a  cucumber,  —  always  looking  so  sure  of  his  game  !  And 
it  was  vexatious  that  Lawyer  Gore  was  not  more  like  him,  but 
was  a  bald,  round-featured  man,  with  bland  manners  and  fat 
hands ;  a  game-cock  that  you  would  be  rash  to  bet  upon 
against  Wakem.  Gore  was  a  sly  fellow.  His  weakness  did 
not  lie  on  the  side  of  scrupulosity ;  but  the  largest  amount 
of  winking,  however  significant,  is  not  equivalent  to  seeing 
through  a  stone  wall ;  and  confident  as  Mr.  Tulliver  was  in  his 
principle  that  water  was  water,  and  in  the  direct  inference 
that  Pivart  had  not  a  leg  to  stand  on  in  this  affair  of  irriga- 
tion, he  had  an  uncomfortable  suspicion  that  Wakem  had 
more  law  to  show  against  this  (rationally)  irrefragable  infer- 
ence, than  Gore  could  show  for  it.  But  then,  if  they  went 
to  law,  there  was  a  chance  for  Mr.  Tulliver  to  employ  Coun- 

10 


146  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

seller  Wylde  on  his  side,  instead  of  having  that  admirable 
bully  against  him;  and  the  prospect  of  seeing  a  witness  of 
Wakem's  made  to  perspire  and  become  confounded,  as  Mr. 
Tulliver's  witness  had  once  been,  was  alluring  to  the  love  of 
retributive  justice. 

Much  rumination  had  Mr.  Tulliver  on  these  puzzling  subjects 
during  his  rides  on  the  grey  horse ;  much  turning  of  the  head 
from  side  to  side,  as  the  scales  dipped  alternately;  but  the 
probable  result  was  still  out  of  sight,  only  to  be  reached 
through  much  hot  argument  and  iteration  in  domestic  and 
social  life.  That  initial  stage  of  the  dispute  which  consisted 
in  the  narration  of  the  case  and  the  enforcement  of  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver's views  concerning  it  throughout  the  entire  circle  of  his 
connections  would  necessarily  take  time ;  and  at  the  beginning 
of  February,  when  Tom  was  going  to  school  again,  there  were 
scarcely  any  new  items  to  be  detected  in  his  father's  statement 
of  the  case  against  Pivart,  or  any  more  specific  indication  of 
the  measures  he  was  bent  on  taking  against  that  rash  con- 
travener  of  the  principle  that  water  was  water.  Iteration, 
like  friction,  is  likely  to  generate  heat  instead  of  progress,  and 
Mr.  Tulliver's  heat  was  certainly  more  and  more  palpable.  If 
there  had  been  no  new  evidence  on  any  other  point,  there  had 
been  new  evidence  that  Pivart  was  as  "  thick  as  mud  "  with 
Wakem. 

"  Father,"  said  Tom,  one  evening  near  the  end  of  the  holi- 
days, "  uncle  Glegg  says  Lawyer  Wakem  is  going  to  send  his 
son  to  Mr.  Stelling.  It  is  n't  true,  what  they  said  about  his 
going  to  be  sent  to  France.  You  won't  like  me  to  go  to  school 
with  Wakem's  son,  shall  you  ?  " 

"  It 's  no  matter  for  that,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver ;  "  don't 
you  learn  anything  bad  of  him,  that's  all.  The  lad's  a  poor 
deformed  creatur,  and  takes  after  his  mother  in  the  face ;  I 
think  there  is  n't  much  of  his  father  in  him.  It 's  a  sign 
Wakem  thinks  high  o'  Mr.  Stelling,  as  he  sends  his  son  to 
him,  and  Wakem  knows  meal  from  bran." 

.Mr.  Tulliver  in  his  heart  was  rather  proud  of  the  fact  that 
his  son  was  to  have  the  same  advantages  as  Wakem's ;  but 
Tom  was  not  at  all  easy  on  the  point.  It  would  have  been 
much  clearer  if  the  lawyer's  son  had  not  been  deformed, 
for  then  Tom  would  have  had  the  prospect  of  pitching  into 
him  with  all  that  freedom  which  is  derived  from  a  high  moral 
sanction. 


SCHOOL-TIME.  147 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE    NEW    SCHOOLFELLOW. 

IT  was  a  cold,  wet  January  day  on  which  Tom  went  back  to 
school ;  a  day  quite  in  keeping  with  this  severe  phase  of  his 
destiny.  If  he  had  not  carried  in  his  pocket  a  parcel  of  sugar- 
candy  and  a  small  Dutch  doll  for  little  Laura,  there  would 
have  been  no  ray  of  expected  pleasure  to  enliven  the  general 
gloom.  But  he  liked  to  think  how  Laura  would  put  out  her 
lips  and  her  tiny  hands  for  the  bits  of  sugar-candy ;  and  to 
give  the  greater  keenness  to  these  pleasures  of  imagination,  he 
took  out  the  parcel,  made  a  small  hole  in  the  paper,  and  bit  off 
a  crystal  or  two,  which  had  so  solacing  an  effect  under  the 
confined  prospect  and  damp  odors  of  the  gig-umbrella,  that  he 
repeated  the  process  more  than  once  on  his  way. 

"  Well,  Tulliver,  we  're  glad  to  see  you  again,"  said  Mr. 
Stelling,  heartily.  "Take  off  your  wrappings  and  come  into 
the  study  till  dinner.  You  '11  find  a  bright  fire  there,  and  a 
new  companion." 

Tom  felt  in  an  uncomfortable  flutter  as  he  took  off  his 
woollen  comforter  and  other  wrappings.  He  had  seen  Philip 
Wakem  at  St.  Ogg's,  but  had  always  turned  his  eyes  away 
from  him  as  quickly  as  possible.  He  would  have  disliked 
having  a  deformed  boy  for  his  companion,  even  if  Philip  had 
not  been  the  son  of  a  bad  man.  And  Tom  did  not  see  how 
a  bad  man's  son  could  be  very  good.  His  own  father  was 
a  good  man,  and  he  would  readily  have  fought  any  one  who 
said  the  contrary.  He  was  in  a  state  of  mingled  embarrass- 
ment and  defiance  as  he  followed  Mr.  Stelling  to  the  study. 

"  Here  is  a  new  companion  for  you  to  shake  hands  with, 
Tulliver,"  said  that  gentleman  on  entering  the  study, — 
"  Master  Philip  Wakem.  I  shall  leave  you  to  make  acquaint- 
ance by  yourselves.  You  already  know  something  of  each 
other,  I  imagine  ;  for  you  are  neighbours  at  home." 

Tom  looked  confused  and  awkward,  while  Philip  rose  and 
glanced  at  him  timidly.  Tom  did  not  like  to  go  up  and  put 
out  his  hand,  and  he  was  not  prepared  to  say,  "  How  do  you 
do  ?  "  011  so  short  a  notice. 


148  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Mr.  Stalling  wisely  turned  away,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him;  boys'  shyness  only  wears  off  in  the  absence  of  their 
riders. 

1  'liilip  was  at  once  too  proud  and  too  timid  to  walk  towards 
Tom.  He  thought,  or  rather  felt,  that  Tom  had  an  aversion 
to  looking  at  him  ;  every  one,  almost,  disliked  looking  at  him ; 
and  his  deformity  was  more  conspicuous  when  he  walked.  So 
they  remained  without  shaking  hands  or  even  speaking,  while 
Tom  went  to  the  fire  and  warmed  himself,  every  now  and  then 
casting  furtive  glances  at  Philip,  who  seemed  to  be  drawing 
absently  first  one  object  and  then  another  on  a  piece  of  paper 
he  had  before  him.  He  had  seated  himself  again,  and  as  he 
drew,  was  thinking  what  he  could  say  to  Tom,  and  trying  to 
overcome  his  own  repugnance  to  making  the  first  advances. 

Tom  began  to  look  oftener  and  longer  at  Philip's  face,  for 
he  could  see  it  without  noticing  the  hump,  and  it  was  really 
not  a  disagreeable  face,  —  very  old-looking,  Tom  thought.  He 
wondered  how  much  older  Philip  was  than  himself.  An  an- 
atomist—  even  a  mere  physiognomist  —  would  have  seen 
that  the  deformity  of  Philip's  spine  was  not  a  congenital 
hump,  but  the  result  of  an  accident  in  infancy ;  but  you  do 
not  expect  from  Tom  any  acquaintance  Avith  such  distinc- 
tions ;  to  him,  Philip  was  simply  a  humpback.  He  had  a 
vague  notion  that  the  deformity  of  Wakem's  son  had  some 
relation  to  the  lawyer's  rascality,  of  which  he  had  so  often 
heard  his  father  talk  with  hot  emphasis ;  and  he  felt,  too,  a 
half-admitted  fear  of  him  as  probably  a  spiteful  fellow,  who, 
not  being  able  to  fight  you,  had  cunning  ways  of  doing  you  a 
mischief  by  the  sly.  There  was  a  humpbacked  tailor  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Mr.  Jacobs's  academy,  who  was  considered 
a  very  unamiable  character,  and  was  much  hooted  after  by 
public-spirited  boys  solely  on  the  ground  of  his  unsatisfactory 
moral  qualities ;  so  that  Tom  was  not  without  a  basis  of  fact 
to  go  upon.  Still,  no  face  could  be  more  unlike  that  ugly 
tailor's  than  this  melancholy  boy's  face,  —  the  brown  hair 
round  it  waved  and  curled  at  the  ends  like  a  girl's ;  Tom 
thought  that  truly  pitiable.  This  Wakem  was  a  pale,  puny 
fellow,  and  it  was  quite  clear  he  would  not  be  able  to  play  at 
anything  worth  speaking  of ;  but  he  handled  his  pencil  in  an 
enviable  manner,  and  was  apparently  making  one  thing  after 
another  without  any  trouble.  What  was  he  drawing  ?  Tom 
was  quite  warm  now,  and  wanted  something  new  to  be  going 
forward.  It  was  certainly  more  agreeable  to  have  an  ill- 
natured  humpback  as  a  companion  than  to  stand  looking  out 


SCHOOL-TIME.  149 

of  the  study  window  at  the  rain,  and  kicking  his  foot  against 
the  washboard  in  solitude ;  something  would  happen  every 
day,  —  "  a  quarrel  or  something  ;  "  and  Tom  thought  he 
should  rather  like  to  show  Philip  that  he  had  better  not 
try  his  spiteful  tricks  on  him.  He  suddenly  walked  across 
the  hearth  and  looked  over  Philip's  paper. 

"  Why,  that 's  a  donkey  with  panniers,  and  a  spaniel,  and 
partridges  in  the  corn  ! "  he  exclaimed,  his  tongue  being  com- 
pletely loosed  by  surprise  and  admiration.  "  0  my  buttons  ! 
I  wish  I  could  draw  like  that.  I  'm  to  learn  drawing  this  half ; 
I  wonder  if  I  shall  learn  to  make  dogs  and  donkeys  ! " 

"  Oh,  you  can  do  them  without  learning,"  said  Philip ;  "  I 
never  learned  drawing." 

"  Never  learned  ?  "  said  Tom,  in  amazement.  "  Why,  when 
I  make  dogs  and  horses,  and  those  things,  the  heads  and  the 
legs  won't  come  right ;  though  I  can  see  how  they  ought  to  be 
very  well.  I  can  make  houses,  and  all  sorts  of  chimneys,  — 
chimneys  going  all  down  the  wall,  —  and  windows  in  the  roof, 
and  all  that.  But  I  daresay  I  could  do  dogs  and  horses  if  I  was 
to  try  more,"  he  added,  reflecting  that  Philip  might  falsely 
suppose  that  he  was  "oing  to  "knock  under,"  if  he  were  too 
frank  about  the  imperfection  of  his  accomplishments. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Philip,  "  it 's  very  easy.  You  've  only  to 
look  well  at  things,  and  draw  them  over  and  over  again.  What 
you  do  wrong  once,  you  can  alter  the  next  time." 

"  But  have  n't  you  been  taught  anything  ?  "  said  Tom,  be- 
ginning to  have  a  puzzled  suspicion  that  Philip's  crooked  back 
might  be  the  source  of  remarkable  faculties.  "  I  thought 
you  'd  been  to  school  a  long  while." 

"  Yes,"  said  Philip,  smiling ;  "  I  've  been  taught  Latin  and 
Greek  and  mathematics,  and  writing  and  such  things." 

"  Oh,  but  I  say,  you  don't  like  Latin,  though,  do  you  ?  "  said 
Tom,  lowering  his  voice  confidentially. 

"  Pretty  well ;  I  don't  care  much  about  it,"  said  Philip. 

"  Ah,  but  perhaps  you  have  n't  got  into  the  Propria  quce 
maribus,"  said  Tom,  nodding  his  head  sideways,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  that  was  the  test ;  it  was  easy  talking  till  you  came  to 
that." 

Philip  felt  some  bitter  complacency  in  the  promising  stupid- 
ity of  this  well-made,  active-looking  boy ;  but  made  polite  by 
his  own  extreme  sensitiveness,  as  well  as  by  his  desire  to  con- 
ciliate, he  checked  his  inclination  to  laugh,  and  said  quietly,  — 

"I  've  done  with  the  grammar  j  I  don't  learn  that  any 
more." 


150  THE   MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Then  you  won't  have  the  same  lessons  as  I  shall  ?  "  said 
Tom,  with  a  sense  of  disappointment. 

"  No ;  but  I  daresay  I  can  help  you.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
help  you  if  I  can." 

Tom  did  not  say  "  Thank  you,"  for  he  was  quite  absorbed  in 
the  thought  that  Wakem's  son  did  not  seem  so  spiteful  a  fellow 
as  might  have  been  expected. 

"  I  say,"  he  said  presently,  "  do  you  love  your  father  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Philip,  colouring  deeply ;  "  don't  you  love 
yours  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  —  I  only  wanted  to  know,"  said  Tom,  rather 
ashamed  of  himself,  now  he  saw  Philip  colouring  and  looking 
uncomfortable.  He  found  much  difficulty  in  adjusting  his 
attitude  of  mind  towards  the  son  of  Lawyer  Wakem,  and  it 
had  occurred  to  him  that  if  Philip  disliked  his  father,  that 
fact  might  go  some  way  towards  clearing  up  his  perplexity. 

"  Shall  you  learn  drawing  now  ?  "  he  said,  by  way  of  chang- 
ing the  subject. 

"  No,"  said  Philip.  "  My  father  wishes  me  to  give  all  my 
time  to  other  things  now." 

"  What !  Latin  and  Euclid,  and  those  things  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"Yes,"  said  Philip,  who  had  left  off  using  his  pencil,  and 
was  resting  his  head  on  one  hand,  while  Tom  was  leaning  for- 
ward on  both  elbows,  and  looking  with  increasing  admiration 
at  the  dog  and  the  donkey. 

"  And  you  don't  mind  that  ?  "  said  Tom,  with  strong  curiosity. 

"No;  I  like  to  know  what  everybody  else  knows.  I  can 
study  what  I  like  by-and-by." 

"  I  can't  think  why  anybody  should  learn  Latin,"  said  Tom. 
"  It 's  no  good." 

"  It 's  part  of  the  education  of  a  gentleman,"  said  Philip. 
"All  gentlemen  learn  the  same  things." 

"  What !  do  you  think  Sir  John  Crake,  the  master  of  the 
harriers,  knows  Latin  ?  "  said  Tom,  who  had  often  thought  he 
should  like  to  resemble  Sir  John  Crake. 

"  He  learned  it  when  he  was  a  boy,  of  course,"  said  Philip. 
"  But  I  daresay  he  's  forgotten  it." 

"Oh,  well,  I  can  do  that,  then,"  said  Tom,  not  with  any 
epigrammatic  intention,  but  with  serious  satisfaction  at  the 
idea  that,  as  far  as  Latin  was  concerned,  there  was  no  hindrance 
to  his  resembling  Sir  John  Crake.  "  Only  you  're  obliged  to 
remember  it  while  you  're  at  school,  else  you  've  got  to  learn 
ever  so  many  lines  of  '  Speaker.'  Mr.  Stelling  's  very  partic- 
ular —  did  you  know  ?  He  '11  have  you  up  ten  times  if  you 


SCHOOL-TIME.  151 

say  'nam'  for  'jam,'  —  he  won't  let  you  go  a  letter  wrong,  1 
can  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Philip,  unable  to  choke  a  laugh ; 
"  I  can  remember  things  easily.  And  there  are  some  lessons 
I  'm  very  fond  of.  I  'm  very  fond  of  Greek  history,  and 
everything  about  the  Greeks.  I  should  like  to  have  been  a 
Greek  and  fought  the  Persians,  and  then  have  come  home  and 
have  written  tragedies,  or  else  have  been  listened  to  by  every- 
body for  my  wisdom,  like  Socrates,  and  have  died  a  grand 
death."  (Philip,  you  perceive,  was  not  without  a  wish  to 
impress  the  well-made  barbarian  with  a  sense  of  his  mental 
superiority.) 

"  Why,  were  the  Greeks  great  fighters  ? "  said  Tom,  who 
saw  a  vista  in  this  direction.  "  Is  there  anything  like  David 
and  Goliath  and  Samson,  in  the  Greek  history  ?  Those  are 
the  only  bits  I  like  in  the  history  of  the  Jews." 

"Oh,  there  are  very  fine  stories  of  that  sort  about  the 
Greeks,  —  about  the  heroes  of  early  times  who  killed  the  wild 
beasts,  as  Samson  did.  And  in  the  Odyssey  —  that 's  a 
beautiful  poem  —  there 's  a  more  wonderful  giant  than  Goliath, 
—  Polypheme,  who  had  only  one  eye  in  the  middle  of  his  fore- 
head ;  and  Ulysses,  a  little  fellow,  but  very  wise  and  cunning, 
got  a  red-hot  pine-tree  and  stuck  it  into  this  one  eye,  and  made 
him  roar  like  a  thousand  bulls." 

"  Oh,  what  fun !  "  said  Tom,  jumping  away  from  the  table, 
and  stamping  first  with  one  leg  and  then  the  other.  "  I  say, 
can  you  tell  me  all  about  those  stories  ?  Because  I  sha'  n't 
learn  Greek,  you  know.  Shall  I  ?  "  he  added,  pausing  in  his 
stamping  with  a  sudden  alarm,  lest  the  contrary  might  be 
possible.  "  Does  every  gentleman  learn  Greek  ?  Will  Mr. 
Stelling  make  me  begin  with  it,  do  you  think  ? " 

"No,  I  should  think  not,  very  likely  not,"  said  Philip. 
"But  you  may  read  those  stories  without  knowing  Greek. 
I've  got  them  in  English." 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  like  reading;  I'd  sooner  have  you  tell 
them  me.  But  only  the  fighting  ones,  you  know.  My  sister 
Maggie  is  always  wanting  to  tell  me  stories,  but  they  're  stu- 
pid things.  Girls '  stories  always  are.  Can  you  tell  a  good 
many  fighting  stories  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Philip ;  "  lots  of  them,  besides  the  Greek 
stories.  I  can  tell  you  about  Kichard  Co?ur-de-Lion  and  Sala- 
din,  and  about  William  Wallace  and  Kobert  Bruce  and  James 
Douglas,  —  I  know  no  end." 

"  You  're  older  than  I  am,  are  n't  you  ?  "  said  Tom. 


152  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Why,  how  old  are  you  ?    I  'm  fifteen." 

"  I  'm  only  going  in  fourteen,"  said  Tom.  "  But  I  thrashed 
all  the  fellows  at  Jacobs 's  —  that 's  where  I  was  before  I  came 
here.  And  I  beat  'em  all  at  bandy  and  climbing.  And  I  wish 
Mr.  Stelling  would  let  us  go  fishing.  /  could  show  you  how 
to  fish.  You  could  fish,  could  n't  you  ?  It 's  only  standing, 
and  sitting  still,  you  know." 

Tom,  in  his  turn,  wished  to  make  the  balance  dip  in  his 
favour.  This  hunchback  must  not  suppose  that  his  acquaint- 
ance with  fighting  stories  put  him  on  a  par  with  an  actual 
fighting  hero,  like  Tom  Tulliver.  Philip  winced  under  this 
allusion  to  his  uiifitness  for  active  sports,  and  he  answered 
almost  peevishly,  — 

"  I  can't  bear  fishing.  I  think  people  look  like  fools  sitting 
watching  a  line  hour  after  hour,  or  else  throwing  and  throw- 
ing, and  catching  nothing." 

"Ah,  but  you  wouldn't  say  they  looked  like  fools  when 
they  landed  a  big  pike,  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Torn,  who  had 
never  caught  anything  that  was  "  big  "  in  his  life,  but  whose 
imagination  was  on  the  stretch  with  indignant  zeal  for  the 
honour  of  sport.  Wakem's  son,  it  was  plain,  had  his  dis- 
agreeable points,  and  must  be  kept  in  due  check.  Happily 
for  the  harmony  of  this  first  interview,  they  were  now  called 
to  dinner,  and  Philip  was  not  allowed  to  develop  farther  his 
unsound  views  on  the  subject  of  fishing.  But  Tom  said  to 
iiimself,  that  was  just  what  he  should  have  expected  from  a 
hunchback. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
"THE  YOUNG  IDEA." 

THE  alternations  of  feeling  in  that  first  dialogue  between 
Tom  and  Philip  continued  to  mark  their  intercourse  even  after 
many  weeks  of  schoolboy  intimacy.  Tom  never  quite  lost 
the  feeling  that  Philip,  being  the  son  of  a  "  rascal,"  was  his 
natural  enemy ;  never  thoroughly  overcame  his  repulsion  to 
Philip's  deformity.  He  was  a  boy  who  adhered  tenaciously  to 
impressions  once  received ;  as  with  all  minds  in  which  mere 
perception  predominates  over  thought  and  emotion,  the  exter- 
nal remained  to  him  rigidly  what  it  was  in  the  first  instance. 


SCHOOL-TIME.  153 

But  then  it  was  impossible  not  to  like  Philip's  company 
when  he  was  in  a  good  humour ;  he  could  help  one  so  well  in 
one's  Latin  exercises,  which  Tom  regarded  as  a  kind  of  puzzle 
that  could  only  be  found  out  by  a  lucky  chance ;  and  he 
could  tell  such  wonderful  fighting  stories  about  Hal  of  the 
Wynd,  for  example,  and  other  heroes  who  were  especial  fa- 
vourites with  Tom,  because  they  laid  about  them  with  heavy 
strokes.  He  had  small  opinion  of  Saladin,  whose  scimitar 
could  cut  a  cushion  in  two  in  an  instant;  who  wanted  to 
cut  cushions  ?  That  was  a  stupid  story,  and  he  did  n't  care 
to  hear  it  again.  But  when  Robert  Bruce,  on  the  black  pony, 
rose  in  his  stirrups,  and  lifting  his  good  battle-axe,  cracked 
at  once  the  helmet  and  the  skull  of  the  too  hasty  knight  at 
Bannockburn,  then  Tom  felt  all  the  exaltation  of  sympathy, 
and  if  he  had  had  a  cocoa-nut  at  hand,  he  would  have  cracked 
it  at  once  with  the  poker.  Philip  in  his  happier  moods  in- 
dulged Tom  to  the  top  of  his  bent,  heightening  the  crash  and 
bang  and  fury  of  every  fight  with  all  the  artillery  of  epithets 
and  similes  at  his  command.  But  he  was  not  always  in  a 
good  humour  or  happy  mood.  The  slight  spurt  of  peevish 
susceptibility  which  had  escaped  him  in  their  first  interview 
was  a  symptom  of  a  perpetually  recurring  mental  ailment, 
half  of  it  nervous  irritability,  half  of  it  the  heart-bitterness 
produced  by  the  sense  of  his  deformity.  In  these  fits  of  sus- 
ceptibility every  glance  seemed  to  him  to  be  charged  either 
with  offensive  pity  or  with  ill-repressed  disgust ;  at  the  very 
least  it  was  an  indifferent  glance,  and  Philip  felt  indifference 
as  a  child  of  the  south  feels  the  chill  air  of  a  northern  spring. 
Poor  Tom's  blundering  patronage  when  they  were  out  of  doors 
together  would  sometimes  make  him  turn  upon  the  well-mean- 
ing lad  quite  savagely ;  and  his  eyes,  usually  sad  and  quiet, 
would  flash  with  anything  but  playful  lightning.  No  wonder 
Tom  retained  his  suspicions  of  the  humpback. 

But  Philip's  self-taught  skill  in  drawing  was  another  link 
between  them ;  for  Tom  found,  to  his  disgust,  that  his  new 
drawing-master  gave  him  no  dogs  and  donkeys  to  draw,  but 
brooks  and  rustic  bridges  and  ruins,  all  with  a  general  softness 
of  black-lead  surface,  indicating  that  nature,  if  anything,  was 
rather  satiny;  and  as  Tom's  feeling  for  the  picturesque  in 
landscape  was  at  present  quite  latent,  it  is  not  surprising  that 
Mr.  Goodrich's  productions  seemed  to  him  an  uninteresting 
form  of  art.  Mr.  Tulliver,  having  a  vague  intention  that  Tom 
should  be  put  to  some  business  which  included  the  drawing 
out  of  plans  and  maps,  had  complained  to  Mr.  Riley,  when  he 


154  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

saw  him  at  Mudport,  that  Tom  seemed  to  be  learning  nothing 
of  that  sort ;  whereupon  that  obliging  adviser  had  suggested 
that  Tom  should  have  drawing-lessons.  Mr.  Tulliver  must 
not  mind  paying  extra  for  drawing ;  let  Tom  be  made  a  good 
draughtsman,  and  he  would  be  able  to  turn  his  pencil  to  any 
purpose.  So  it  was  ordered  that  Tom  should  have  drawing- 
lessons;  and  whom  should  Mr.  Stelling  have  selected  as  a 
master  if  not  Mr.  Goodrich,  who  was  considered  quite  at  the 
head  of  his  profession  within  a  circuit  of  twelve  miles  round 
King's  Lorton  ?  By  which  means  Tom  learned  to  make  an 
extremely  fine  point  to  his  pencil,  and  to  represent  landscape 
with  a  "broad  generality,"  which,  doubtless  from  a  narrow 
tendency  in  his  mind  to  details,  he  thought  extremely  dull. 

All  this,  you  remember,  happened  in  those  dark  ages  when 
there  were  no  schools  of  design ;  before  schoolmasters  were 
invariably  men  of  scrupulous  integrity,  and  before  the  clergy 
were  all  men  of  enlarged  minds  and  varied  culture.  In  those 
less  favoured  days,  it  is  no  fable  that  there  were  other  clergy- 
men besides  Mr.  Stelling  who  had  narrow  intellects  and  large 
wants,  and  whose  income,  by  a  logical  confusion  to  which 
Fortune,  being  a  female  as  well  as  blindfold,  is  peculiarly 
liable,  was  proportioned  not  to  their  wants  but  to  their  intel- 
lect, with  which  income  has  clearly  no  inherent  relation. 
The  problem  these  gentlemen  had  to  solve  was  to  readjust 
the  proportion  between  their  wants  and  their  income ;  and 
since  wants  are  not  easily  starved  to  death,  the  simpler  method 
appeared  to  be  to  raise  their  income.  There  was  but  one 
way  of  doing  this ;  any  of  those  low  callings  in  which  men 
are  obliged  to  do  good  work  at  a  low  price  were  forbidden  to 
clergymen;  was  it  their  fault  if  their  only  resource  was  to 
turn  out  very  poor  work  at  a  high  price  ?  Besides,  how 
should  Mr.  Stelling  be  expected  to  know  that  education  was  a 
delicate  and  difficult  business,  any  more  than  an  animal  en- 
dowed with  a  power  of  boring  a  hole  through  a  rock  should 
be  expected  to  have  wide  views  of  excavation  ?  Mr.  Stelling's 
faculties  had  been  early  trained  to  boring  in  a  straight  line, 
and  he  had  no  faculty  to  spare.  But  among  Tom's  contempo- 
raries, whose  fathers  cast  their  sons  on  clerical  instruction  to 
find  them  ignorant  after  many  days,  there  were  many  far  less 
lucky  than  Tom  Tulliver.  Education  was  almost  entirely  a 
matter  of  luck  —  usually  of  ill-luck  —  in  those  distant  days. 
The  state  of  mind  in  which  you  take  a  billiard-cue  or  a  dice- 
box  in  your  hand  is  one  of  sober  certainty  compared  with  that 
of  old-fashioned  fathers,  like  Mr.  Tulliver,  when  they  selected 


SCHOOL-TIME.  155 

a  school  or  a  tutor  for  their  sons.  Excellent  men,  who  had 
been  forced  all  their  lives  to  spell  on  an  impromptu-phonetic 
system,  and  having  carried  on  a  successful  business  in  spite  of 
this  disadvantage,  had  acquired  money  enough  to  give  their 
sons  a  better  start  in  life  than  they  had  had  themselves,  must 
necessarily  take  their  chance  as  to  the  conscience  and  the  com- 
petence of  the  schoolmaster  whose  circular  fell  in  their  way, 
and  appeared  to  promise  so  much  more  than  they  would  ever 
have  thought  of  asking  for,  including  the  return  of  linen, 
fork,  and  spoon.  It  was  happy  for  them  if  some  ambitious 
draper  of  their  acquaintance  had  not  brought  up  his  son  to 
the  Church,  and  if  that  young  gentleman,  at  the  age  of  four- 
and-twenty,  had  not  closed  his  college  dissipations  by  an  im- 
prudent marriage ;  otherwise,  these  innocent  fathers,  desirous 
of  doing  the  best  for  their  offspring,  could  only  escape  the 
draper's  son  by  happening  to  be  on  the  foundation  of  a  gram- 
mar-school as  yet  unvisited  by  commissioners,  where  two  or 
three  boys  could  have,  all  to  themselves,  the  advantages  of  a 
large  and  lofty  building,  together  with  a  head-master,  tooth- 
less, dim-eyed  and  deaf,  whose  erudite  indistinctness  and  in- 
attention were  engrossed  by  them  at  the  rate  of  three  hundred 
pounds  a-head,  —  a  ripe  scholar,  doubtless,  when  first  appointed ; 
but  all  ripeness  beneath  the  sun  has  a  further  stage  less  es- 
teemed in  the  market. 

Tom  Tulliver,  then,  compared  with  many  other  British 
youths  of  his  time  who  have  since  had  to  scramble  through 
life  with  some  fragments  of  more  or  less  relevant  knowledge, 
and  a  great  deal  of  strictly  relevant  ignorance,  was  not  so  very 
unlucky.  Mr.  Stelling  was  a  broad-chested,  healthy  man,  with 
the  bearing  of  a  gentleman,  a  conviction  that  a  growing  boy 
required  a  sufficiency  of  beef,  and  a  certain  hearty  kindness 
in  him  that  made  him  like  to  see  Tom  looking  well  and  enjoy- 
ing his  dinner ;  not  a  man  of  refined  conscience,  or  with  an} 
deep  sense  of  the  infinite  issues  belonging  to  every-day  duties » 
not  quite  competent  to  his  high  offices ;  but  incompetent  gen- 
tlemen must  live,  and  without  private  fortune  it  is  difficult  to 
see  how  they  could  all  live  genteelly  if  they  had  nothing  to  do 
with  education  or  government.  Besides,  it  was  the  fault  of 
Tom's  mental  constitution  that  his  faculties  could  not  be  nour- 
ished on  the  sort  of  knowledge  Mr.  Stelling  had  to  communi- 
cate. A  boy  born  with  a  deficient  power  of  apprehending 
signs  and  abstractions  must  suffer  the  penalty  of  his  con- 
genital deficiency,  just  as  if  he  had  been  born  with  one  leg 
shorter  than  the  other.  A  method  of  education  sanctioned  by 


156  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

the  long  practice  of  our  venerable  ancestors  was  not  to  give 
way  before  the  exceptional  dulness  of  a  boy  who  was  merely 
living  at  the  time  then  present.  And  Mr.  Stalling  was  con- 
vinced that  a  boy  so  stupid  at  signs  and  abstractions  must  be 
stupid  at  everything  else,  even  if  that  reverend  gentleman 
could  have  taught  him  everything  else.  It  was  the  practice  of 
our  venerable  ancestors  to  apply  that  ingenious  instrument  the 
thumb-screw,  and  to  tighten  and  tighten  it  in  order  to  elicit 
non-existent  facts ;  they  had  a  fixed  opinion  to  begin  with. 
that  the  facts  were  existent,  and  what  hail  they  to  do  but  to 
tighten  the  thumb-screw  ?  In  like  manner,  Mr.  Stelling  had 
a  fixed  opinion  that  all  boys  with  any  capacity  could  learn 
what  it  was  the  only  regular  thing  to  teach;  if  they  were 
slow,  the  thumb-screw  must  be  tightened,  —  the  exercises  must 
be  insisted  on  with  increased  severity,  and  a  page  of  Virgil 
be  awarded  as  a  penalty,  to  encourage  and  stimulate  a  too 
languid  inclination  to  Latin  verse. 

The  thumb-screw  was  a  little  relaxed,  however,  during  this 
second  half-year.  Philip  was  so  advanced  in  his  studies,  and 
so  apt,  that  Mr.  Stelling  could  obtain  credit  by  his  facility, 
which  required  little  help,  much  more  easily  than  by  the 
troublesome  process  of  overcoming  Tom's  dulness.  Gentle- 
men with  broad  chests  and  ambitious  intentions  do  sometimes 
disappoint  their  friends  by  failing  to  carry  the  world  before 
them.  Perhaps  it  is  that  high  achievements  demand  some 
other  unusual  qualification  besides  an  unusual  desire  for  high 
prizes ;  perhaps  it  is  that  these  stalwart  gentlemen  are  rather 
indolent,  their  dicince  particulum  aurce  being  obstructed  from 
soaring  by  a  too  hearty  appetite.  Some  reason  or  other  there 
was  why  Mr.  Stelling  deferred  the  execution  of  many  spirited 
projects, — why  he  did  not  begin  the  editing  of  his  Greek 
play,  or  any  other  work  of  scholarship,  in  his  leisure  hours, 
but,  after  turning  the  key  of  his  private  study  with  much 
•uition,  sat  down  to  one  of  Theodore  Hook's  novels.  Tom 
was  gradually  allowed  to  shuffle  through  his  lessons  with  less 
rigour,  and  having  Philip  to  help  him,  he  was  able  to  make 
some  show  of  having  applied  his  mind  in  a  confused  and 
blundering  way,  without  being  cross-examined  into  a  betrayal 
that  his  mind  had  been  entirely  neutral  in  the  matter.  He 
thought  school  much  more  bearable  under  this  modification  of 
circumstances ;  and  he  went  on  contentedly  enough,  picking 
up  a  promiscuous  education  chiefly  from  things  that  were  not 
intended  as  education  at  all.  What  was  understood  to  be  his 
education  was  simply  the  practice  of  reading,  writing,  and 


SCHOOL-TIME.  157 

spelling,  carried  on  by  an  elaborate  appliance  of  unintelligible 
ideas,  and  by  much  failure  in  the  effort  to  learn  by  rote. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  visible  improvement  in  Tom  under 
this  training ;  perhaps  because  he  was  not  a  boy  in  the  abstract, 
existing  solely  to  illustrate  the  evils  of  a  mistaken  education, 
but  a  boy  made  of  flesh  and  blood,  with  dispositions  not  en- 
tirely at  the  mercy  of  circumstances. 

There  was  a  great  improvement  in  his  bearing,  for  example ; 
and  some  credit  on  this  score  was  due  to  Mr.  Poulter,  the  vil- 
lage schoolmaster,  who,  being  an  old  Peninsular  soldier,  was 
employed  to  drill  Tom,  —  a  source  of  high  mutual  pleasure. 
Mr.  Poulter,  who  was  understood  by  the  company  at  the  Black 
Swan  to  have  once  struck  terror  into  the  hearts  of  the  French, 
was  no  longer  personally  formidable.  He  had  rather  a  shrunken 
appearance,  and  was  tremulous  in  the  mornings,  not  from  age, 
but  from  the  extreme  perversity  of  the  King's  Lorton  boys, 
which  nothing  but  gin  could  enable  him  to  sustain  with  any 
firmness.  Still,  he  carried  himself  with  martial  erectness,  had 
his  clothes  scrupulously  brushed,  and  his  trousers  tightly 
strapped;  and  on  the  Wednesday  and  Saturday  afternoons, 
when  he  came  to  Tom,  he  was  always  inspired  with  gin  and 
old  memories,  which  gave  him  an  exceptionally  spirited  air, 
as  of  a  superannuated  charger  who  hears  the  drum.  The 
drilling-lessons  were  always  protracted  by  episodes  of  warlike 
narrative,  much  more  interesting  to  Tom  than  Philip's  stories 
out  of  the  Iliad ;  for  there  were  no  cannon  in  the  Iliad,  and 
besides,  Tom  had  felt  some  disgust  on  learning  that  Hector  and 
Achilles  might  possibly  never  have  existed.  But  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  was  really  alive,  and  Bony  had  not  been  long 
dead  ;  therefore  Mr.  Poulter's  reminiscences  of  the  Peninsular 
AVar  were  removed  from  all  suspicion  of  being  mythical.  Mr. 
Poulter,  it  appeared,  had  been  a  conspicuous  figure  at  Talavera, 
and  had  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  peculiar  terror  with 
which  his  regiment  of  infantry  was  regarded  by  the  enemy. 
On  afternoons  when  his  memory  was  more  stimulated  than 
usual,  he  remembered  that  the  Duke  of  Wellington  had  (in 
strict  privacy,  lest  jealousies  should  be  awakened)  expressed 
his  esteem  for  that  fine  fellow  Poulter.  The  very  surgeon 
who  attended  him  in  the  hospital  after  he  had  received  his 
gunshot-wound  had  been  profoundly  impressed  with  the  supe- 
riority of  Mr.  Poulter's  flesh,  —  no  other  flesh  would  have 
healed  in  anything  like  the  same  time.  On  less  personal  mat- 
ters connected  Avith  the  important  warfare  in  which  he  had 
been  engaged,  Mr.  Poulter  was  more  reticent,  only  taking 


158  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

care  not  to  give  the  weight  of  his  authority  to  any  loose 
notions  concerning  military  history.  Any  one  who  pretended 
to  a  knowledge  of  what  occurred  at  the  siege  of  Badajos  was 
especially  an  object  of  silent  pity  to  Mr.  Poulter;  he  wished 
that  prating  person  had  been  run  down,  and  had  the  breath 
trampled  out  of  him  at  the  first  go-off,  as  he  himself  had,  —  he 
might  talk  about  the  siege  of  Badajos  then!  Tom  did  not 
escape  irritating  his  drilling-master  occasionally,  by  his  curi- 
osity concerning  other  military  matters  than  Mr.  Poulter's 
personal  experience. 

"  And  General  Wolfe,  Mr.  Poulter,  —  was  n't  he  a  wonderful 
fighter  ?  "  said  Tom,  who  held  the  notion  that  all  the  martial 
heroes  commemorated  on  the  public-house  signs  were  engaged 
in  the  war  with  Bony. 

"  Not  at  all ! "  said  Mr.  Poulter,  contemptuously.  "  Nothing 
o'  the  sort !  Heads  up ! "  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  stern  com- 
mand, which  delighted  Tom,  and  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were 
a  regiment  in  his  own  person. 

"  No,  no  !  "  Mr.  Poulter  would  continue,  on  coming  to  a  pause 
in  his  discipline  ;  "  they  'd  better  not  talk  to  me  about  General 
Wolfe.  He  did  nothing  but  die  of  his  wound  ;  that 's  a  poor 
haction,  I  consider.  Any  other  man  'ud  have  died  o'  the 
wounds  I  've  had.  One  of  ray  sword-cuts  'ud  ha'  killed  a  fel- 
low like  General  Wolfe." 

"  Mr.  Poulter,"  Tom  would  say,  at  any  allusion  to  the  sword, 
"  I  wish  you  'd  bring  your  sword  and  do  the  sword-exercise  !  " 

For  a  long  while  Mr.  Poulter  only  shook  his  head  in  a 
significant  manner  at  this  request,  and  smiled  patronisingly, 
as  Jupiter  may  have  done  when  Semele  urged  her  too  ambi- 
tious request.  But  one  afternoon,  when  a  sudden  shower  of 
heavy  rain  had  detained  Mr.  Poulter  twenty  minutes  longer 
than  usual  at  the  Black  Swan,  the  sword  was  brought, — just 
for  Tom  to  look  at. 

"  And  this  is  the  real  sword  you  fought  with  in  all  the  bat- 
tles, Mr.  Poulter  ?  "  said  Tom,  handling  the  hilt.  "  Has  it  ever 
cut  a  Frenchman's  head  off  ?  " 

"  Head  off  ?    Ah  !  and  would,  if  he  'd  had  three  heads." 

"  But  you  had  a  gun  and  bayonet  besides  ?  "  said  Tom. 
"  /  should  like  the  gun  and  bayonet  best,  because  you  could 
shoot  'em  first  and  spear  'em  after.  Bang  !  Ps-s-s-s  ! "  Tom 
gave  the  requisite  pantomime  to  indicate  the  double  enjoy- 
ment of  pulling  the  trigger  and  thrusting  the  spear. 

"  Ah,  but  the  sword  's  the  thing  when  you  come  to  close 
fighting,"  said  Mr.  Poulter,  involuntarily  falling  in  with  Tom's 


SCHOOL-TIME.  159 

enthral",  sin,  and  drawing  the  sword  so  suddenly  that  Tom 
leaped  back  with  much  agility. 

"  Oh,  but,  Mr.  Poulter,  if  you  're  going  to  do  the  exercise," 
said  Tom,  a  little  conscious  that  he  had  not  stood  his  ground 
as  became  an  Englishman,  "  let  me  go  and  call  Philip.  He  '11 
like  to  see  you,  you  know." 

"  What !  the  humpbacked  lad  ? "  said  Mr.  Poulter,  con- 
temptuously ;  "  what 's  the  use  of  his  looking  on  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  he  knows  a  great  deal  about  fighting,"  said  Tom, 
"  and  how  they  used  to  fight  with  bows  and  arrows,  and 
battle-axes." 

"  Let  him  come,  then.  I  '11  show  him  something  different 
from  his  bows  and  arrows,"  said  Mr.  Poulter,  coughing  and 
drawing  himself  up,  while  he  gave  a  little  preliminary  play 
to  his  wrist. 

Tom  ran  in  to  Philip,  who  was  enjoying  his  afternoon's 
holiday  at  the  piano,  in  the  drawing-room,  picking  out  tunes 
for  himself  and  singing  them.  He  was  supremely  happy, 
perched  like  an  amorphous  bundle  on  the  high  stool,  with 
his  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  opposite  cornice, 
and  his  lips  wide  open,  sending  forth,  with  all  his  might,  im- 
promptu syllables  to  a  tune  of  Arne's,  which  had  hit  his 
fancy. 

"  Come,  Philip,"  said  Tom,  bursting  in ;  "  don't  stay  roar- 
ing 'la  la'  there;  come  and  see  old  Poulter  do  his  sword- 
exercise  in  the  carriage-house ! " 

The  jar  of  this  interruption,  the  discord  of  Tom's  tones 
coming  across  the  notes  to  which  Philip  was  vibrating  in 
soul  and  body,  would  have  been  enough  to  unhinge  his  temper, 
even  if  there  had  been  no  question  of  Poulter  the  drilling- 
master  ;  and  Tom,  in  the  hurry  of  seizing  something  to  say  to 
prevent  Mr.  Poulter  from  thinking  he  was  afraid  of  the  sword 
when  he  sprang  away  from  it,  had  alighted  on  this  proposition 
to  fetch  Philip,  though  he  knew  well  enough  that  Philip 
hated  to  hear  him  mention  his  drilling-lessons.  Tom  would 
never  have  done  so  inconsiderate  a  thing  except  under  the 
severe  stress  of  his  personal  pride. 

Philip  shuddered  visibly  as  he  paused  from  his  music. 
Then  turning  red,  he  said,  with  violent  passion, — 

"  Get  away,  you  lumbering  idiot !  Don't  come  bellowing 
at  me  ;  you  're  not  fit  to  speak  to  anything  but  a  cart-horse  ! " 

It  was  not  the  first  time  Philip  had  been  made  angry  by 
him,  but  Tom  had  never  before  been  assailed  with  verbal 
missiles  that  he  understood  so  well. 


160  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  I  'm  fit  to  speak  to  something  better  than  you,  you  poor- 
spirited  imp  !  "  said  Tom,  lighting  up  immediately  at  Philip's 
fire.  "  You  know  I  won't  hit  you,  because  you  're  no  better 
than  a  girl.  But  I  'm  an  honest  man's  son,  and  your  father 's 
a  rogue ;  everybody  says  so  ! " 

Tom  flung  out  of  the  room,  and  slammed  the  door  after 
him,  made  strangely  heedless  by  his  anger ;  for  to  slam  doors 
within  the  hearing  of  Mrs.  Stelling,  who  was  probably  not 
far  off,  was  an  offence  only  to  be  wiped  out  by  twenty  lines 
of  Virgil.  In  fact,  that  lady  did  presently  descend  from  her 
room,  in  double  wonder  at  the  noise  and  the  subsequent  cessa- 
tion of  Philip's  music.  She  found  him  sitting  in  a  heap  on 
the  hassock,  and  crying  bitterly. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Wakeni  ?  What  was  that  noise  about  ? 
Who  slammed  the  door  ?  " 

Philip  looked  up,  and  hastily  dried  his  eyes.  "  It  was 
Tulliver  who  came  in  —  to  ask  me  to  go  out  with  him." 

"  And  what  are  you  in  trouble  about  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Stelling. 

Philip  was  not  her  favourite  of  the  two  pupils ;  he  was 
less  obliging  than  Tom,  who  was  made  useful  in  many  ways. 
Still,  his  father  paid  more  than  Mr.  Tulliver  did,  and  she 
meant  him  to  feel  that  she  behaved  exceedingly  well  to  him. 
Philip,  however,  met  her  advances  towards  a  good  understand- 
ing very  much  as  a  caressed  mollusk  meets  an  invitation  to 
show  himself  out  of  his  shell.  Mrs.  Stclling  was  not  a  loving, 
tender-hearted  woman  ;  she  was  a  woman  whose  skirt  sat  well, 
who  adjusted  her  waist  and  patted  her  curls  with  a  preoccu- 
pied air  when  she  inquired  after  your  welfare.  These  things, 
doubtless,  represent  a  great  social  power,  but  it  is  not  the 
power  of  love  ;  and  no  other  power  could  win  Philip  from  his 
personal  reserve. 

He  said,  in  answer  to  her  question,  "  My  toothache  came 
on,  and  made  me  hysterical  again." 

This  had  been  the  fact  once,  and  Philip  was  glad  of  the 
recollection;   it  was   like   an   inspiration   to   enable   him   to 
excuse  his  crying.     He  had  to  accept  eau-de-Cologne  and  t 
refuse  creosote  in  consequence;  but  that  was  easy. 

Meanwhile  Tom,  who  had  for  the  first  time  sent  a  poisoned 
arrow  into  Philip's  heart,  had  returned  to  the  carriage-house, 
where  he  found  Mr.  Poulter,  with  a  fixed  and  earnest  eye, 
wasting  the  perfections  of  his  sword-exercise  on  probably 
observant  but  inappreciative  rats.  But  Mr.  Poulter  was  a 
host  in  himself;  that  is  to  say,  he  admired  himself  more  than 
a  whole  army  of  spectators  could  have  admired  him.  He  took 


SCHOOL-TIME.  161 

no  notice  of  Tom's  return,  being  too  entirely  absorbed  in  the 
cut  and  thrust,  —  the  solemn  one,  two,  three,  four ;  and  Tom, 
not  without  a  slight  feeling  of  alarm  at  Mr.  Poulter's  fixed 
eye  and  hungry-looking  sword,  which  seemed  impatient  for 
something  else  to  cut  besides  the  air,  admired  the  performance 
from  as  great  a  distance  as  possible.  It  was  not  until  Mr. 
Poulter  paused  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead, 
that  Tom  felt  the  full  charm  of  the  sword-exercise,  and  wished 
it  to  be  repeated. 

"Mr.  Poulter,"  said  Tom,  when  the  sword  was  being  finally 
sheathed,  "  I  wish  you  'd  lend  me  your  sword  a  little  while 
to  keep." 

"No,  no,  young  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Poulter,  shaking  his 
head  decidedly ;  "  you  might  do  yourself  some  mischief  with 
it." 

"  No,  I  'm  sure  I  would  n't ;  I  'm  sure  I  'd  take  care  and  not 
hurt  myself.  I  should  n't  take  it  out  of  the  sheath  much,  but 
I  could  ground  arms  with  it,  and  all  that." 

"  No,  no,  it  won't  do,  I  tell  you  ;  it  won't  do,"  said  Mr. 
Poulter,  preparing  to  depart.  "What  'ud  Mr.  Stelling  say 
to  me?" 

"  Oh,  I  say,  do,  Mr.  Poulter  !  I  'd  give  you  my  five-shilling 
piece  if  you  'd  let  me  keep  the  sAvord  a  week.  Look  here  ! " 
said  Tom,  reaching  out  the  attractively  large  round  of  silver. 
The  young  dog  calculated  the  effect  as  well  as  if  he  had  been 
a  philosopher. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Poulter,  with  still  deeper  gravity,  "you 
must  keep  it  out  of  sight,  you  know." 

"Oh  yes,  I'll  keep  it  under  the  bed,"  said  Tom,  eagerly, 
"or  else  at  the  bottom  of  my  large  box." 

"  And  let  me  see,  now,  whether  you  can  draw  it  out  of  the 
sheath  without  hurting  yourself." 

That  process  having  been  gone  through  more  than  once, 
Mr.  Poulter  felt  that  he  had  acted  with  scrupulous  conscien- 
tiousness, and  said,  "  Well,  now,  Master  Tulliver,  if  I  take  the 
crown-piece,  it  is  to  make  sure  as  you  '11  do  no  mischief  with 
the  sword." 

"  Oh  no,  indeed,  Mr.  Poulter,"  said  Tom,  delightedly  hand- 
ing him  the  crown-piece,  and  grasping  the  sword,  which,  he 
thought,  might  have  been  lighter  with  advantage. 

"  But  if  Mr.  Stelling  catches  you  carrying  it  in  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Poulter,  pocketing  the  crown-piece  provisionally  while  he 
raised  this  new  doubt. 

"  Oh,  he  always  keeps  in  his  up-stairs  study  on  Saturday  af- 

11 


162  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

ternoons,"  said  Tom,  who  disliked  anything  sneaking,  but  was 
not  disinclined  to  a  little  stratagem  in  a  worthy  cause.  So  he 
carried  off  the  sword  in  triumph  mixed  with  dread  —  dread 
that  he  might  encounter  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Stelling  —  to  his  bed- 
room, where,  after  some  consideration,  he  hid  it  in  the  closet 
behind  some  hanging  clothes.  That  night  he  fell  asleep  in 
the  thought  that  he  would  astonish  Maggie  with  it  when  she 
came,  —  tie  it  round  his  waist  with  his  red  comforter,  and 
make  her  believe  that  the  sword  was  his  own,  and  that  he  was 
going  to  be  a  soldier.  There  was  nobody  but  Maggie  who 
would  be  silly  enough  to  believe  him,  or  whom  he  dared  allow 
to  know  that  he  had  a  sword ;  and  Maggie  was  really  coining 
next  week  to  see  Tom,  before  she  went  to  a  boarding-school 
with  Lucy. 

If  you  think  a  lad  of  thirteen  would  not  have  been  so  child- 
ish, you  must  be  an  exceptionally  wise  man,  who,  although 
you  are  devoted  to  a  civil  calling,  requiring  you  to  look  bland 
rather  than  formidable,  yet  never,  since  you  had  a  beard, 
threw  yourself  into  a  martial  attitude,  and  frowned  before  the 
looking-glass.  It  is  doubtful  whether  our  soldiers  would  be 
maintained  if  there  were  not  pacific  people  at  home  who  like 
to  fancy  themselves  soldiers.  War,  like  other  dramatic  spec- 
tacles, might  possibly  cease  for  want  of  a  "  public." 


CHAPTER  V. 
MAGGIE'S  SECOND  VISIT. 

THIS  last  breach  between  the  two  lads  was  not  readily 
mended,  and  for  some  time  they  spoke  to  each  other  no  more 
than  was  necessary.  Their  natural  antipathy  of  temperament 
made  resentment  an  easy  passage  to  hatred,  and  in  Philip  the 
transition  seemed  to  have  begun ;  there  was  no  malignity  in 
his  disposition,  but  there  was  a  susceptibility  that  made  him 
peculiarly  liable  to  a  strong  sense  of  repulsion.  The  ox  — 
we  may  venture  to  assert  it  on  the  authority  of  a  great  classic 
—  is  not  given  to  use  his  teeth  as  an  instrument  of  attack  ,  and 
Tom  was  an  excellent  bovine  lad,  who  ran  at  questionable  ob- 
jects in  a  truly  ingenious  bovine  manner;  but  he  had  blun- 
dered on  Philip's  tenderest  point,  and  had  caused  him  as  mur-h 


SCHOOL-TIME.  163 

acute  pain  as  if  he  had  studied  the  means  with  the  nicest  pre- 
cision and  the  most  envenomed  spite.  Tom  saw  no  reason 
why  they  should  not  make  up  this  quarrel  as  they  had  done 
many  others,  by  behaving  as  if  nothing  had  happened ;  for 
though  he  had  never  before  said  to  Philip  that  his  father  was 
a  rogue,  this  idea  had  so  habitually  made  part  of  his  feeling 
as  to  the  relation  between  himself  and  his  dubious  school- 
fellow, whom  he  could  neither  like  nor  dislike,  that  the  mere 
utterance  did  not  make  such  an  epoch  to  him  as  it  did  to 
Philip.  And  he  had  a  right  to  say  so  when  Philip  hectored 
over  hint,  and  called  him  names.  But  perceiving  that  his  first 
advances  towards  amity  were  not  met,  he  relapsed  into  his 
least  favourable  disposition  towards  Philip,  and  resolved  never 
to  appeal  to  him  either  about  drawing  or  exercises  again. 
They  were  only  so  far  civil  to  each  other  as  was  necessary 
to  prevent  their  state  of  feud  from  being  observed  by  Mr. 
Stelling,  who  would  have  "  put  down "  such  nonsense  with 
great  vigour. 

When  Maggie  came,  however,  she  could  not  help  looking 
with  growing  interest  at  the  new  schoolfellow,  although  he 
was  the  son  of  that  wicked  Lawyer  Wakem,  who  made  her 
father  so  angry.  She  had  arrived  in  the  middle  of  school- 
hours,  and  had  sat  by  while  Philip  went  through  his  lessons 
with  Mr.  Stelling.  Tom,  some  weeks  ago,  had  sent  her  word 
that  Philip  knew  no  end  of  stories,  —  not  stupid  stories  like 
hers  ;  and  she  was  convinced  now  from  her  own  observation 
that  he  must  be  very  clever ;  she  hoped  he  would  think  her 
rather  clever  too,  when  she  came  to  talk  to  him.  Maggie, 
moreover,  had  rather  a  tenderness  for  deformed  things  ;  she 
preferred  the  wry-necked  lambs,  because  it  seemed  to  her  that 
the  lambs  which  were  quite  strong  and  well  made  would  n't 
mind  so  much  about  being  petted ;  and  she  was  especially  fond 
of  petting  objects  that  would  think  it  very  delightful  to  be 
petted  by  her.  She  loved  Tom  very  dearly,  but  she  often 
wished  that  he  cared  more  about  her  loving  him. 

"  I  think  Philip  Wakem  seems  a  nice  boy,  Tom."  she  said, 
when  they  went  out  of  the  study  together  into  the  garden,  to 
pass  the  interval  before  dinner.  "He  couldn't  choose  his 
father,  you  know ;  and  I  Ve  read  of  very  bad  men  who  had 
good  sons,  as  well  as  good  parents  who  had  bad  children.  And 
if  Philip  is  good,  I  think  we  ought  to  be  the  more  sorry  for 
him  because  his  father  is  not  a  good  man.  You  like  him, 
don't  you?" 

" Oh,  he 's  a  queer  fellow, "  said  Tom,  curtly,  "and  he's  as 


164  THE  MILL    ON   THE  FLOSS. 

sulky  as  can  be  with  me,  because  I  told  him  his  father  was  a 
rogue.  And  I  'd  a  right  to  tell  him  so,  for  it  was  true ;  and 
he  began  it,  with  calling  me  names.  But  you  stop  here  by 
yourself  a  bit,  Magsie,  will  you  ?  I  've  got  something  I  want 
to  do  up-stairs." 

"  Can't  I  go  too  ? "  said  Maggie,  who  in  this  first  day  of 
meeting  again  loved  Tom's  shadow. 

"  No,  it  '.s  something  I  '11  tell  you  about  by-and-by,  not  yet," 
said  Tom,  skipping  away. 

In  the  afternoon  the  boys  were  at  their  books  in  the  study, 
preparing  the  morrow's  lessons,  that  they  might  have  a  holi- 
day in  the  evening  in  honour  of  Maggie's  arrival.  Tom  was 
hanging  over  his  Latin  grammar,  moving  his  lips  inaudibly 
like  a  strict  but  impatient  Catholic  repeating  his  tale  of  pater- 
nosters ;  and  Philip,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  was  busy 
with  two  volumes,  with  a  look  of  contented  diligence  that 
excited  Maggie's  curiosity ;  he  did  not  look  at  all  as  if  he 
were  learning  a  lesson.  She  sat  on  a  low  stool  at  nearly  a 
right  angle  with  the  two  boys,  watching  first  bne  and  then  the 
other;  and  Philip,  looking  off  his  book  once  towards  the  fire- 
place, caught  the  pair  of  questioning  dark  eyes  fixed  upon 
him.  He  thought  this  sister  of  Tulliver's  seemed  a  nice  little 
thing,  quite  unlike  her  brother ;  he  wished  he  had  a  little 
sister.  What  was  it,  he  wondered,  that  made  Maggie's  dark 
eyes  remind  him  of  the  stories  about  princesses  being  turned 
into  animals  ?  I  think  it  was  that  her  eyes  were  full  of 
unsatisfied  intelligence,  and  unsatisfied,  beseeching  affection. 

"  I  say,  Magsie,"  said  Tom  at  last,  shutting  his  books  and 
putting  them  away  with  the  energy  and  decision  of  a  perfect 
master  in  the  art  of  leaving  off,  "  I  've  done  my  lessons  now. 
Come  up-stairs  with  me." 

"  What  is  it  ? "  said  Maggie,  when  they  were  outside  the 
door,  a  slight  suspicion  crossing  her  mind  as  she  remembered 
Tom's  preliminary  visit  up-stairs.  "  It  is  n't  a  trick  you  're 
going  to  play  me,  now  ?  " 

"No,  no,  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  in  his  most  coaxing  tone; 
"  it 's  something  you  '11  like  ever  so." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  neck,  and  she  put  hers  round  his 
waist,  and  twined  together  in  this  way,  they  went  up-stairs. 

"  I  say,  Magsie,  you  must  not  tell  anybody,  you  know,"  said 
Tom,  "else  I  shall  get  fifty  lines." 

"  Is  it  alive  ? "  said  Maggie,  whose  imagination  had  set- 
tled for  the  moment  on  the  idea  that  Tom  kept  a  ferret 
clandestinely. 


SC-HOOL-TIME.  165 

"  Oh,  I  sha'n't  tell  you,"  said  he.  "  Now  you  go  into  that 
corner  and  hide  your  face,  while  I  reach  it  out,"  he  added,  as 
he  locked  the  bedroom  door  behind  them.  "I'll  tell  you 
when  to  turn  round.  You  must  n't  squeal  out,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  but  if  you  frighten  me,  I  shall,"  said  Maggie,  begin- 
ning to  look  rather  serious. 

"You  won't  be  frightened,  you  silly  thing,"  said  Tom. 
"  Go  and  hide  your  face,  and  mind  you  don't  peep." 

"  Of  course  I  sha'n't  peep,"  said  Maggie,  disdainfully ;  and 
she  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  like  a  person  of  strict  honour. 

But  Tom  looked  round  warily  as  he  walked  to  the  closet ; 
then  he  stepped  into  the  narrow  space,  and  almost  closed  the 
door.  Maggie  kept  her  face  buried  without  the  aid  of  princi- 
ple, for  in  that  dream-suggestive  attitude  she  had  soon  forgot- 
ten where  she  was,  and  her  thoughts  were  busy  with  the  poor 
deformed  boy,  who  was  so  clever,  when  Tom  called  out,  "  Now 
then,  Magsie ! " 

Nothing  but  long  meditation  and  preconcerted  arrangement 
of  effects  could  have  enabled  Tom  to  present  so  striking  a 
figure  as  he  did  to  Maggie  when  she  looked  up.  Dissatisfied 
with  the  pacific  aspect  of  a  face  which  had  no  more  than  the 
faintest  hint  of  flaxen  eyebrow,  together  with  a  pair  of  amia- 
ble blue-grey  eyes  and  round  pink  cheeks  that  refused  to  look 
formidable,  let  him  frown  as  he  would  before  the  looking- 
glass  (Philip  had  once  told  him  of  a  man  who  had  a  horse- 
shoe frown,  and  Tom  had  tried  with  all  his  frowning-might  to 
make  a  horseshoe  on  his  forehead),  he  had  had  recourse  to 
that  unfailing  source  of  the  terrible,  burnt  cork,  and  had  made 
himself  a  pair  of  black  eyebrows  that  met  in  a  satisfactory 
manner  over  his  nose,  and  were  matched  by  a  less  carefully 
adjusted  blackness  about  the  chin.  He  had  wound  a  red  hand- 
kerchief round  his  cloth  cap  to  give  it  the  air  of  a  turban,  and 
his  red  comforter  across  his  breast  as  a  scarf,  —  an  amount  of 
red  which,  with  the  tremendous  frown  on  his  brow,  and  the 
decision  with  which  he  grasped  the  sword,  as  he  held  it  with 
its  point  resting  on  the  ground,  would  suffice  to  convey  .an 
approximative  idea  of  his  fierce  and  bloodthirsty  disposition. 

Maggie  looked  bewildered  for  a  moment,  and  Tom  enjoyed 
that  moment  keenly ;  but  in  the  next  she  laughed,  clapped  her 
hands  together,  and  said,  "Oh,  Tom,  you've  made  yourself 
like  Bluebeard  at  the  show." 

It  was  clear  she  had  not  been  struck  with  the  presence  of 
the  sword,  —  it  was  not  unsheathed.  Her  frivolous  mind  re- 
quired a  more  direct  appeal  to  its  sense  of  the  terrible,  and 


166  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Tom  prepared  for  his  master-stroke.  Frowning  with  a  double 
amount  of  intention,  if  not  of  corrugation,  he  (carefully}  drew 
the  sword  from  its  sheath,  and  pointed  it  at  Maggie. 

"  Oh,  Tom,  please  don't !  "  exclaimed  Maggie,  in  a  tone  of 
suppressed  dread,  shrinking  away  from  him  into  the  opposite 
corner.  "  I  shall  scream  —  I  'm  sure  I  shall !  Oh,  don't !  I 
wish  I  'd  never  come  up-stairs  !  " 

The  corners  of  Tom's  mouth  showed  an  inclination  to  a 
smile  of  complacency  that  was  immediately  checked  as  incon- 
sistent with  the  severity  of  a  great  warrior.  Slowly  he  let 
down  the  scabbard  on  the  floor,  lest  it  should  make  too  much 
noise,  and  then  said  sternly,  — 

"I  'm  the  Duke  of  Wellington  !  March  !  "  stamping  forward 
with  the  right  leg  a  little  bent,  and  the  sword  still  pointing 
towards  Maggie,  who,  trembling,  and  with  tear-filled  eyes,  got 
upon  the  bed,  as  the  only  means  of  widening  the  space  be- 
tween them. 

Tom,  happy  in  this  spectator  of  his  military  performances, 
even  though  the  spectator  was  only  Maggie,  proceeded,  with 
the  utmost  exertion  of  his  force,  to  such  an  exhibition  of  the 
cut  and  thrust  as  would  necessarily  be  expected  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington. 

"Tom,  I  will  not  bear  it,  I  will  scream,"  said  Maggie,  at 
the  first  movement  of  the  sword.  "  You  '11  hurt  yourself ; 
you  '11  cut  your  head  off !  " 

u  One  —  two,"  said  Tom,  resolutely,  though  at  "  two  "  his 
wrist  trembled  a  little.  "  Three  "  came  more  slowly,  and  with 
it  the  sword  swung  downwards,  and  Maggie  gave  a  loud  shriek. 
The  sword  had  fallen,  with  its  edge  on  Tom's  foot,  and  in  a 
moment  after  he  had  fallen  too.  Maggie  leaped  from  the  bed, 
still  shrieking,  and  immediately  there  was  a  rush  of  footsteps 
towards  the  room.  Mr.  Stelling,  from  his  up-stairs  study, 
was  the  first  to  enter.  He  found  both  the  children  on  the 
floor.  Tom  had  fainted,  and  Maggie  was  shaking  him  by  the 
collar  of  his  jacket,  screaming,  with  wild  eyes.  She  thought 
he  was  dead,  poor  child !  and  yet  she  shook  him,  as  if  that 
would  bring  him  back  to  life.  In  another  minute  she  was 
sobbing  with  joy  because  Tom  had  opened  his  eyes.  She 
could  n't  sorrow  yet  that  he  had  hurt  his  foot ;  it  seemed  as 
if  all  happiness  lay  in  his  being  alive. 


SCHOOL-TIME.  167 


CHAPTER   VI. 

A    LOVE    SCENE. 

POOR  Tom  bore  his  severe  pain  heroically,  and  was  reso- 
lute in  not  "telling"  of  Mr.  Poulter  more  than  was  un- 
avoidable ;  the  five-shilling  piece  remained  a  secret  even  to 
Maggie.  But  there  was  a  terrible  dread  weighing  on  his 
mind,  so  terrible  that  he  dared  not  even  ask  the  question 
which  might  bring  the  fatal  "  yes ; "  he  dared  not  ask  the 
surgeon  or  Mr.  Stelling,  "  Shall  I  be  lame,  sir  ?  "  He  mas- 
tered himself  so  as  not  to  cry  out  at  the  pain  ;  but  when  his 
foot  had  been  dressed,  and  he  was  left  alone  with  Maggie 
seated  by  his  bedside,  the  children  sobbed  together,  with  their 
heads  laid  on  the  same  pillow.  Tom  was  thinking  of  himself 
walking  about  on  crutches,  like  the  wheelwright's  son;  and 
Maggie,  who  did  not  guess  what  was  in  his  mind,  sobbed  for 
company.  It  had  not  occurred  to  the  surgeon  or  to  Mr.  Stel- 
ling  to  anticipate  this  dread  in  Tom's  mind,  and  to  reassure 
him  by  hopeful  words.  But  Philip  watched  the  surgeon  out 
of  the  house,  and  waylaid  Mr.  Stelling  to  ask  the  very  question 
that  Tom  had  not  dared  to  ask  for  himself. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  —  but  does  Mr.  Askern  say  Tulliver 
will  be  lame  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  oh  no,"  said  Mr.  Stelling,  "  not  permanently ;  only 
for  a  little  while." 

"  Did  he  tell  Tulliver  so,  sir,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"No;  nothing  was  said  to  him  on  the  subject." 

"  Then  may  I  go  and  tell  him,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure ;  now  you  mention  it,  I  daresay  he  may 
be  troubling  about  that.  Go  to  his  bedroom,  but  be  very 
quiet  at  present." 

It  had  been  Philip's  first  thought  when  he  heard  of  the 
accident,  —  "  Will  Tulliver  be  lame  ?  It  will  be  very  hard  for 
him  if  he  is ;  "  and  Tom's  hitherto  unforgiven  offences  were 
washed  out  by  that  pity.  Philip  felt  that  they  were  no  longer 
in  a  state  of  repulsion,  but  were  being  drawn  into  a  common 
current  of  suffering  and  sad  privation.  His  imagination  did 
not  dwell  on  the  outward  calamity  and  its  future  effect  on 
Tom's  life,  but  it  made  vividly  present  to  him  the  probable 


168  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

state  of  Tom's  feeling.  Philip  had  only  lived  fourteen  years, 
but  those  years  had,  most  of  them,  been  steeped  in  the  sense 
of  a  lot  irremediably  hard. 

"  Mr.  Askern  says  you  '11  soon  be  all  right  again,  Tulliver, 
did  you  know  ?  "  he  said  rather  timidly,  as  he  stepped  gently 
up  to  Tom's  bed.  "  I  've  just  been  to  ask  Mr.  Stelling,  and  he 
says  you  '11  walk  as  well  as  ever  again  by-and-by." 

Tom  looked  up  with  that  momentary  stopping  of  the  breath 
which  comes  with  a  sudden  joy ;  then  he  gave  a  long  sigh, 
and  turned  his  blue-grey  eyes  straight  on  Philip's  face,  as  he 
had  not  done  for  a  fortnight  or  more.  As  for  Maggie,  this 
intimation  of  a  possibility  she  had  not  thought  of  before 
affected  her  as  a  new  trouble ;  the  bare  idea  of  Tom's  being 
always  lame  overpowered  the  assurance  that  such  a  misfortune 
was  not  likely  to  befall  him,  and  she  clung  to  him  and  cried 
afresh. 

"  Don't  be  a  little  silly,  Magsie,"  said  Tom,  tenderly,  feeling 
very  brave  now.  "  I  shall  soon  get  well." 

"  Good-bye,  Tulliver,"  said  Philip,  putting  out  his  small, 
delicate  haud,  which  Tom  clasped  immediately  with  his  more 
substantial  fingers. 

"  I  say,"  said  Tom,  "  ask  Mr.  Stelling  to  let  you  come  and 
sit  with  me  sometimes,  till  I  get  up  again,  Wakem ;  and  tell 
me  about  Eobert  Bruce,  you  know." 

After  that,  Philip  spent  all  his  time  out  of  school-hours 
with  Tom  and  Maggie.  Tom  liked  to  hear  fighting  stories  as 
much  as  ever,  but  he  insisted  strongly  on  the  fact  that  those 
great  fighters,  who  did  so  many  wonderful  things  and  came 
off  unhurt,  wore  excellent  armour  from  head  to  foot,  which 
made  fighting  easy  work,  he  considered.  He  should  not  have 
hurt  his  foot  if  he  had  had  an  iron  shoe  on.  He  listened  with 
great  interest  to  a  new  story  of  Philip's  about  a  man  who  had 
a  very  bad  wound  in  his  foot,  and  cried  out  so  dreadfully  with 
the  pain  that  his  friends  could  bear  with  him  no  longer,  but 
put  him  ashore  on  a  desert  island,  with  nothing  but  some  won- 
derful poisoned  arrows  to  kill  animals  with  for  food. 

"  I  did  n't  roar  out  a  bit,  you  know,"  Tom  said,  "  and  I  dare- 
say my  foot  was  as  bad  as  his.  It 's  cowardly  to  roar." 

But  Maggie  would  have  it  that  when  anything  hurt  you 
very  much,  it  was  quite  permissible  to  cry  out,  and  it  was 
cruel  of  people  not  to  bear  it.  She  wanted  to  know  if  Philoc- 
tetes  had  a  sister,  and  why  she  didn't  go  with  him  on  the 
desert  island  and  take  care  of  him. 

One  day,  soon  after   Philip  had   told   this   story,   he   and 


SCHOOL-TIME.  169 

Maggie  were  in  the  study  alone  together  while  Tom's  foot 
was  being  dressed.  Philip  was  at  his  books,  and  Maggie, 
after  sauntering  idly  round  the  room,  not  caring  to  do  any- 
thing in  particular,  because  she  would  soon  go  to  Tom  again, 
went  and  leaned  on  the  table  near  Philip  to  see  what  he  was 
doing,  for  they  were  quite  old  friends  now,  and  perfectly  at 
home  with  each  other. 

"  What  are  you  reading  about  in  Greek  ?  "  she  said.  "  It 's 
poetry,  I  can  see  that,  because  the  lines  are  so  short." 

"  It 's  about  Philoctetes,  the  lame  man  I  was  telling  you  of 
yesterday,"  he  answered,  resting  his  head  on  his  hand,  and 
looking  at  her  as  if  he  were  not  at  all  sorry  to  be  interrupted. 
Maggie,  in  her  absent  way,  continued  to  lean  forward,  resting 
on  her  arms  and  moving  her  feet  about,  while  her  dark  eyes 
got  more  and  more  fixed  and  vacant,  as  if  she  had  quite  for- 
gotten Philip  and  his  book. 

"Maggie,"  said  Philip,  after  a  minute  or  two,  still  leaning 
on  his  elbow  and  looking  at  her,  "if  you  had  had  a  brother 
like  me,  do  you  think  you  should  have  loved  him  as  well  as 
Tom  ?  " 

Maggie  started  a  little  on  being  roused  from  her  reverie, 
and  said,  "  What  ?  "  Philip  repeated  his  question. 

"  Oh  yes,  better,"  she  answered  immediately.  "  No,  not 
better ;  because  I  don't  think  I  could  love  you  better  than 
Tom.  But  I  should  be  so  sorry,  —  so  sorry  for  you." 

Philip  coloured ;  he  had  meant  to  imply,  would  she  love 
him  as  well  in  spite  of  his  deformity,  and  yet  when  she 
alluded  to  it  so  plainly,  he  winced  under  her  pity.  Maggie, 
young  as  she  was,  felt  her  mistake.  Hitherto  she  had  instinc- 
tively behaved  as  if  she  were  quite  unconscious  of  Philip's 
deformity ;  her  own  keen  sensitiveness  and  experience  under 
family  criticism  sufficed  to  teach  her  this  as  well  as  if  she 
had  been  directed  by  the  most  finished  breeding. 

"  But  you  are  so  very  clever,  Philip,  and  you  can  play  and 
sing,"  she  added  quickly.  "  I  wish  you  were  my  brother.  I  'm 
very  fond  of  you.  And  you  would  stay  at  home  with  me 
when  Tom  went  out,  and  you  would  teach  me  everything; 
would  n't  you,  —  Greek  and  everything  ?  " 

"  But  you  '11  go  away  soon,  and  go  to  school,  Maggie,"  said 
Philip,  "  and  then  you  '11  forget  all  about  me,  and  not  care  for 
me  any  more.  And  then  I  shall  see  you  when  you  're  grown 
up,  and  you  '11  hardly  take  any  notice  of  me." 

"  Oh  no,  I  sha'n't  forget  you,  I  'm  sure,"  said  Maggie, 
shaking  her  head  very  seriously.  "  I  never  forget  anything, 


170  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

and  I  think  about  everybody  when  I  'm  away  from  them.  I 
think  about  poor  Yap ;  he 's  got  a  lump  in  his  throat,  and 
Luke  says  he  '11  die.  Only  don't  you  tell  Tom,  because  it 
will  vex  him  so.  You  never  saw  Yap ;  he  's  a  queer  little 
dog,  —  nobody  cares  about  him  but  Tom  and  me." 

"  Do  you  care  as  much  about  me  as  you  do  about  Yap, 
Maggie  ? "  said  Philip,  smiling  rather  sadly. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  should  think  so,"  said  Maggie,  laughing. 

"  I  'm  very  fond  of  you,  Maggie  ;  I  shall  never  forget  you," 
said  Philip,  "and  when  I'm  very  unhappy,  I  shall  always 
think  of  you,  and  wish  I  had  a  sister  with  dark  eyes,  just  like 
yours." 

"  Why  do  you  like  my  eyes  ?  "  said  Maggie,  well  pleased. 
She  had  never  heard  any  one  but  her  father  speak  of  her  eyes 
as  if  they  had  merit. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Philip.  "  They  're  not  like  any  other 
eyes.  They  seem  trying  to  speak,  — trying  to  speak  kindly.  I 
don't  like  other  people  to  look  at  me  much,  but  I  like  you  to 
look  at  me,  Maggie." 

"  Why,  I  think  you  're  fonder  of  me  than  Tom  is,"  said 
Maggie,  rather  sorrowfully.  Then,  wondering  how  she  could 
convince  Philip  that  she  could  like  him  just  as  well,  although 
he  was  crooked,  she  said,  — 

"  Should  you  like  me  to  kiss  you,  as  I  do  Tom.  I  will,  if 
you  like." 

"  Yes,  very  much  ;  nobody  kisses  me." 

Maggie  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  quite 
earnestly. 

"There  now,"  she  said,  "I  shall  always  remember  you, 
and  kiss  you  when  I  see  you  again,  if  it 's  ever  so  long.  But 
I  '11  go  now,  because  I  think  Mr.  Askern  's  done  with  Tom's 
foot." 

When  their  father  came  the  second  time,  Maggie  said  to 
him,  "  Oh,  father,  Philip  Wakem  is  so  very  good  to  Tom  ; 
he  is  such  a  clever  boy,  and  I  do  love  him.  And  you  love 
him  too,  Tom,  don't  you  ?  Say  you  love  him,"  she  added 
entreatingly. 

Tom  coloured  a  little  as  he  looked  at  his  father,  and  said, 
"  I  sha'n't  be  friends  with  him  when  I  leave  school,  father  ; 
but  we  've  made  it  up  now,  since  my  foot  has  been  bad,  and 
he  's  taught  me  to  play  at  draughts,  and  I  can  beat  him." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  "  if  he 's  good  to  you,  try 
and  make  him  amends,  and  be  good  to  him.  He 's  a  poor 
crooked  creatur,  and  takes  after  his  dead  mother.  But  don't 


SCHOOL-TIME.  171 

you  be  getting  too  thick  Avith  him ;  he 's  got  his  father's 
blood  in  him  too.  Ay,  ay,  the  grey  colt  may  chance  to  kick 
like  his  black  sire." 

The  jarring  natures  of  the  two  boys  effected  what  Mr. 
Tulliver's  admonition  alone  might  have  failed  t®  effect ;  in 
spite  of  Philip's  new  kindness,  and  Tom's  answering  regard 
in  this  time  of  his  trouble,  they  never  became  close  friends. 
When  Maggie  was  gone,  and  Avhen  Tom  by-and-by  began  to 
walk  about  as  usual,  the  friendly  warmth  that  had  been  kindled 
by  pity  and  gratitude  died  out  by  degrees,  and  left  them  in 
their  old  relation  to  each  other.  Philip  was  often  peevish 
and  contemptuous ;  and  Tom's  more  specific  and  kindly 
impressions  gradually  melted  into  the  old  background  of 
suspicion  and  dislike  towards  him  as  a  queer  fellow,  a  hump- 
back, and  the  son  of  a  rogue.  If  boys  and  men  are  to  be 
welded  together  in  the  glow  of  transient  feeling,  they  must 
be  made  of  metal  that  will  mix,  else  they  inevitably  fall 
asunder  when  the  heat  dies  out. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  GOLDEN  GATES  ARE  PASSED. 

So  Tom  went  on  even  to  the  fifth  half-year — till  he  was 
turned  sixteen  —  at  King's  Lorton,  while  Maggie  was  growing 
with  a  rapidity  which  her  aunts  considered  highly  repre- 
hensible, at  Miss  Firniss's  boarding-school  in  the  ancient 
town  of  Laceham  on  the  Floss,  with  cousin  Lucy  for  her 
companion.  In  her  early  letters  to  Tom  she  had  always  sent 
her  love  to  Philip,  and  asked  many  questions  about  him, 
which  were  answered  by  brief  sentences  about  Tom's  tooth- 
ache, and  a  turf-house  which  he  was  helping  to  build  in  the 
garden,  with  other  items  of  that  kind.  She  was  pained  to 
hear  Tom  say  in  the  holidays  that  Philip  was  as  queer  as  ever 
again,  and  often  cross.  They  were  no  longer  very  good  friends, 
she  perceived ;  and  when  she  reminded  Tom  that  he  ought 
always  to  love  Philip  for  being  so  good  to  him  when  his  foot 
was  bad,  he  answered,  "  Well,  it  is  n't  my  fault ;  /  don't  do 
anything  to  him."  She  hardly  ever  saw  Philip  during  the 
remainder  of  their  school-life ;  in  the  Midsummer  holidays 


172  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

he  was  always  away  at  the  seaside,  and  at  Christmas  she 
could  only  meet  him  at  long  intervals  in  the  streets  of  St. 
Ogg's.  When  they  did  meet,  she  remembered  her  promise 
to  kiss  him,  but,  as  a  young  lady  who  had  been  at  a  boarding- 
school,  she  knew  now  that  such  a  greeting  was  out  of  the 
question,  and  Philip  would  not  expect  it.  The  promise  was 
void,  like  so  many  other  sweet,  illusory  promises  of  our 
childhood;  void  as  promises  made  in  Eden  before  the  seasons 
were  divided,  and  when  the  starry  blossoms  grew  side  by  side 
with  the  ripening  peach,  —  impossible  to  be  fulfilled  when  the 
golden  gates  had  been  passed. 

But  when  their  father  was  actually  engaged  in  the  long- 
threatened  lawsuit,  and  Wakem,  as  the  agent  at  once  of  Pivart 
and  Old  Harry,  was  acting  against  him,  even  Maggie  felt, 
with  some  sadness,  that  they  were  not  likely  ever  to  have 
any  intimacy  with  Philip  again;  the  very  name  of  Wakem 
made  her  father  angry,  and  she  had  once  heard  him  say 
that  if  that  crook-backed  son  lived  to  inherit  his  father's  ill- 
gotten  gains,  there  would  be  a  curse  upon  him.  "  Have  as 
little  to  do  with  him  at  school  as  you  can,  my  lad,"  he  said  to 
Torn ;  and  the  command  was  obeyed  the  more  easily  because 
Mr.  Stelling  by  this  time  had  two  additional  pupils ;  for 
though  this  gentleman's  rise  in  the  world  was  not  of  that 
meteor-like  rapidity  which  the  admirers  of  his  extempora- 
neous eloquence  had  expected  for  a  preacher  whose  voice 
demanded  so  wide  a  sphere,  he  had  yet  enough  of  growing 
prosperity  to  enable  him  to  increase  his  expenditure  in 
continued  disproportion  to  his  income. 

As  for  Tom's  school  course,  it  went  on  with  mill-like 
monotony,  his  mind  continuing  to  move  with  a  slow,  half- 
stifled  pulse  in  a  medium  of  uninteresting  or  unintelligible 
ideas.  But  each  vacation  he  brought  home  larger  and  larger 
drawings  with  the  satiny  rendering  of  landscape,  and  water- 
colours  in  vivid  greens,  together  with  manuscript  books  full 
of  exercises  and  problems,  in  which  the  handwriting  was  all 
the  finer  because  he  gave  his  whole  mind  to  it.  Each  vaca- 
tion he  brought  home  a  new  book  or  two,  indicating  his 
progress  through  different  stages  of  history,  Christian  doc- 
trine, and  Latin  literature ;  and  that  passage  was  not  entirely 
without  result,  besides  the  possession  of  the  books.  Tom's  ear 
and  tongue  had  become  accustomed  to  a  great  many  words  and 
phrases  which  are  understood  to  be  signs  of  an  educated  con- 
dition ;  and  though  he  had  never  really  applied  his  mind  to 
any  one  of  his  lessons,  the  lessons  had  left  a  deposit  of  vague, 


SCHOOL-TIME.  173 

fragmentary,  ineffectual  notions.  Mr.  Tulliver,  seeing  signs 
of  acquirement  beyond  the  reach  of  his  own  criticism,  thought 
it  was  probably  all  right  with  Tom's  education ;  he  observed, 
indeed,  that  there  were  no  maps,  and  not  enough  "  summing ; " 
but  he  made  no  formal  complaint  to  Mr.  Stelling.  It  was  a 
puzzling  business,  this  schooling ;  and  if  he  took  Tom  away, 
where  could  he  send  him  with  better  effect  ? 

By  the  time  Tom  had  reached  his  last  quarter  at  King's 
Lorton,  the  years  had  made  striking  changes  in  him  since  the 
day  we  saw  him  returning  from  Mr.  Jacobs's  academy.  He 
was  a  tall  youth  now,  carrying  himself  without  the  least  awk- 
wardness, and  speaking  without  more  shyness  than  was  a  be- 
coming symptom  of  blended  diffidence  and  pride  ;  he  wore  his 
tail-coat  and  his  stand-up  collars,  and  watched  the  down  on 
his  lip  with  eager  impatience,  looking  every  day  at  his  virgin 
razor,  with  which  he  had  provided  himself  in  the  last  holi- 
days. Philip  had  already  left,  —  at  the  autumn  quarter,  — 
that  he  might  go  to  the  south  for  the  winter,  for  the  sake  of 
his  health ;  and  this  change  helped  to  give  Tom  the  unsettled, 
exultant  feeling  that  usually  belongs  to  the  last  months  before 
leaving  school.  This  quarter,  too,  there  was  some  hope  of  his 
father's  lawsuit  being  decided ;  that  made  the  prospect  of  home 
more  entirely  pleasurable.  For  Tom,  who  had  gathered  his 
view  of  the  case  from  his  father's  conversation,  had  no  doubt 
that  Pivart  would  be  beaten. 

Tom  had  not  heard  anything  from  home  for  some  weeks,  — 
a  fact  which  did  not  surprise  him,  for  his  father  and  mother 
were  not  apt  to  manifest  their  affection  in  unnecessary  letters, 
—  when,  to  his  great  surprise,  011  the  morning  of  a  dark,  cold 
day  near  the  end  of  November,  he  was  told,  soon  after  entering 
the  study  at  nine  o'clock,  that  his  sister  was  in  the  drawing- 
room.  It  was  Mrs.  Stelling  Avho  had  come  into  the  study  to 
tell  him,  and  she  left  him  to  enter  the  drawing-room  alone. 

Maggie,  too,  was  tall  now,  with  braided  and  coiled  hair ; 
she  was  almost  as  tall  as  Tom,  though  she  was  only  thirteen ; 
and  she  really  looked  older  than  he  did  at  that  moment.  She 
had  thrown  off  her  bonnet,  her  heavy  braids  were  pushed  back 
from  her  forehead,  as  if  it  would  not  bear  that  extra  load,  and 
her  young  face  had  a  strangely  worn  look,  as  her  eyes  turned 
anxiously  towards  the  door.  When  Tom  entered  she  did  not 
speak,  but  only  went  up  to  him,  put  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  kissed  him  earnestly.  He  was  used  to  various  moods 
of  hers,  and  felt  no  alarm  at  the  unusual  seriousness  of  her 
greeting. 


1T4  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Why,  how  is  it  you  're  come  so  early  this  cold  morning, 
Maggie  ?  Did  you  come  in  the  gig  ? "  said  Tom,  as  she 
backed  towards  the  sofa,  and  drew  him  to  her  side. 

"  No,  I  came  by  the  coach.  I  've  walked  from  the  turn- 
pike." 

"  But  how  is  it  you  're  not  at  school  ?  The  holidays  have 
not  begun  yet  ?  " 

"  Father  Avanted  me  at  home,"  said  Maggie,  with  a  slight 
trembling  of  the  lip.  "  I  came  home  three  or  four  days  ago." 

"  Is  n't  my  father  well  ?  "  said  Tom,  rather  anxiously. 

"  Not  quite,"  said  Maggie.  "  He 's  very  unhappy,  Tom. 
The  lawsuit  is  ended,  and  I  came  to  tell  yoii  because  I 
thought  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  know  it  before  you 
came  home,  and  I  did  n't  like  only  to  send  you  a  letter." 

"  My  father  has  n't  lost  ?  "  said  Tom,  hastily,  springing  from 
the  sofa,  and  standing  before  Maggie  with  his  hands  suddenly 
thrust  in  his  pockets. 

"  Yes,  dear  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  looking  up  at  him  with 
trembling. 

Tom  was  silent  a  minute  or  two,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
floor.  Then  he  said, — 

"  My  father  will  have  to  pay  a  good  deal  of  money,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie,  rather  faintly. 

"Well,  it  can't  be  helped,"  said  Tom,  bravely,  not  trans- 
lating the  loss  of  a  large  sum  of  money  into  any  tangible 
results.  "  But  my  father 's  very  much  vexed,  I  daresay  ? " 
he  added,  looking  at  Maggie,  and  thinking  that  her  agitated 
face  was  only  part  of  her  girlish  way  of  taking  tilings. 

"Yes,"  said  Maggie,  again  faintly.  Then,  urged  to  fuller 
speech  by  Tom's  freedom  from  apprehension,  she  said  loudly 
and  rapidly,  as  if  the  words  would  burst  from  her,  "  Oh,  Tom, 
he  will  lose  the  mill  and  the  land  and  everything ;  he  will  have 
nothing  left." 

Tom's  eyes  flashed  out  one  look  of  surprise  at  her,  before 
he  turned  pale,  and  trembled  visibly.  He  said  nothing,  but 
sat  down  on  the  sofa  again,  looking  vaguely  out  of  the  oppo 
site  window. 

Anxiety  about  the  future  had  never  entered  Tom's  mind. 
His  father  had  always  ridden  a  good  horse,  kept  a  good  house, 
and  had  the  cheerful,  confident  air  of  a  man  who  has  plenty  of 
property  to  fall  back  upon.  Tom  had  never  dreamed  that  his 
father  would  "  fail ; "  that  was  a  form  of  misfortune  which  he 
had  always  heard  spoken  of  as  a  deep  disgrace,  and  disgrace 
was  an  idea  that  he  could  not  associate  with  any  of  his  rela- 


SCHOOL-TIME.  175 

tions,  least  of  all  with  his  father.  A  proud  sense  of  family 
respectability  was  part  of  the  very  air  Tom  had  been  born  and 
brought  up  in.  He  knew  there  were  people  in  St.  Ogg's  who 
made  a  show  without  money  to  support  it,  and  he  had  always 
heard  such  people  spoken  of  by  his  own  friends  with  contempt 
and  reprobation.  He  had  a  strong  belief,  which  was  a  life-long 
habit,  and  required  no  definite  evidence  to  rest  on,  that  his 
father  could  spend  a  great  deal  of  money  if  he  chose ;  and 
since  his  education  at  Mr.  Stelling's  had  given  him  a  more  ex- 
pensive view  of  life,  he  had  often  thought  that  when  he  got 
older  he  would  make  a  figure  in  the  world,  with  his  horse  and 
dogs  and  saddle,  and  other  accoutrements  of  a  fine  young  man, 
and  show  himself  equal  to  any  of  his  contemporaries  at  St. 
Ogg's,  who  might  consider  themselves  a  grade  above  him  in 
society,  because  their  fathers  were  professional  men,  or  had 
large  oil-mills.  As  to  the  prognostics  and  headshaking  of  his 
aunts  and  uncles,  they  had  never  produced  the  least  effect  on 
him,  except  to  make  him  think  that  aunts  and  tincles  were 
disagreeable  society ;  he  had  heard  them  find  fault  in  much 
the  same  way  as  long  as  he  could  remember.  His  father  knew 
better  than  they  did. 

The  down  had  come  on  Tom's  lip,  yet  his  thoughts  and  ex- 
pectations had  been  hitherto  only  the  reproduction,  in  changed 
forms,  of  the  boyish  dreams  in  which  he  had  lived  three  years 
ago.  He  was  awakened  now  with  a  violent  shock. 

Maggie  was  frightened  at  Tom's  pale,  trembling  silence. 
There  was  something  else  to  tell  him,  —  something  worse. 
She  threw  her  arms  round  him  at  last,  and  said,  with  a  half 
sob,  — 

"  Oh,  Tom  —  dear,  dear  Tom,  don't  fret  too  much ;  try  and 
bear  it  well." 

Tom  turned  his  cheek  passively  to  meet  her  entreating 
kisses,  and  there  gathered  a  moisture  in  his  eyes,  which  he 
just  rubbed  away  with  his  hand.  The  action  seemed  to  rouse 
him,  for  he  shook  himself  and  said,  "  I  shall  go  home  with  you, 
Maggie.  Did  n't  my  father  say  I  was  to  go  ?  " 

"  No,  Tom,  father  did  n't  wish  it,"  said  Maggie,  her  anxiety 
about  his  feeling  helping  her  to  master  her  agitation.  What 
would  he  do  when  she  told  him  all  ?  "  But  mother  wants  you 
to  come,  —  poor  mother !  —  she  cries  so.  Oh,  Tom,  it 's  very 
dreadful  at  home." 

Maggie's  lips  grew  whiter,  and  she  began  to  tremble  almost 
as  Tom  had  done.  The  two  poor  things  clung  closer  to  each 
other,  both  trembling,  —  the  one  at  an  unshapen  fear,  the  other 


176  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

at  the  image  of  a  terrible  certainty.  When  Maggie  spoke,  it 
was  hardly  above  a  whisper. 

"  And  —  and  —  poor  father  —  " 

Maggie  could  not  utter  it.  But  the  suspense  was  intolerable 
to  Tom.  A  vague  idea  of  going  to  prison,  as  a  consequence  of 
debt,  was  the  shape  his  fears  had  begun  to  take. 

"  Where  's  my  father  ?  "  he  said  impatiently.  "  Tell  me, 
Maggie." 

"  He  's  at  home,"  said  Maggie,  finding  it  easier  to  reply  to 
that  question.  "But,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  "not  him- 
self—  he  fell  off  his  horse.  He  has  known  nobody  but  me 
ever  since  —  he  seems  to  have  lost  his  senses.  0  father, 
father  —  " 

With  these  last  words,  Maggie's  sobs  burst  forth  with  the 
more  violence  for  the  previous  struggle  against  them.  Tom 
felt  that  pressure  of  the  heart  which  forbids  tears  ;  he  had  no 
distinct  vision  of  their  troubles  as  Maggie  had,  who  had  been 
at  home  ;  he  only  felt  the  crushing  weight  of  what  seemed  un- 
mitigated misfortune.  He  tightened  his  arm  almost  convul- 
sively round  Maggie  as  she  sobbed,  but  his  face  looked  rigid 
and  tearless,  his  eyes  blank,  —  as  if  a  black  curtain  of  cloud 
had  suddenly  fallen  on  his  path. 

But  Maggie  soon  checked  herself  abruptly ;  a  single  thought 
had  acted  on  her  like  a  startling  sound. 

"  We  must  set  out,  Tom,  we  must  not  stay.  Father  will 
miss  me ;  we  must  be  at  the  turnpike  at  ten  to  meet  the 
coach."  She  said  this  with  hasty  decision,  rubbing  her  eyes, 
and  rising  to  seize  her  bonnet. 

Tom  at  once  felt  the  same  impulse,  and  rose  too.  "  Wait  a 
minute,  Maggie,"  he  said.  "  I  must  speak  to  Mr.  Stelling,  and 
then  we  '11  go." 

He  thought  he  must  go  to  the  study  where  the  pupils  were ; 
but  on  his  way  he  met  Mr.  Stelling,  who  had  heard  from  his 
wife  that  Maggie  appeared  to  be  in  trouble  when  she  asked  for 
her  brother,  and  now  that  he  thought  the  brother  and  sister 
had  been  alone  long  enough,  was  coming  to  inquire  and  offer 
his  sympathy. 

"Please,  sir,  I  must  go  home,"  Tom  said  abruptly,  as  he 
met  Mr.  Stelling  in  the  passage.  "  I  must  go  back  with  my 
sister  directly.  My  father 's  lost  his  lawsuit  —  he 's  lost  all 
his  property  —  and  he's  very  ill." 

Mr.  Stelling  felt  like  a  kind-hearted  man;  he  foresaw  a 
probable  money  loss  for  himself,  but  this  had  no  appreciable 
share  in  his  feeling,  while  he  looked  with  grave  pity  at  the 


SCHOOL-TIME.  177 

brother  and  sister  for  whom  youth  and  sorrow  had  begun 
together.  When  he  knew  how  Maggie  had  come,  and  how 
eager  she  was  to  get  home  again,  he  hurried  their  departure, 
only  whispering  something  to  Mrs.  Stelling,  who  had  followed 
him,  and  who  immediately  left  the  room. 

Tom  and  Maggie  were  standing  on  the  door-step,  ready  to  set 
out,  when  Mrs.  Stelling  came  with  a  little  basket,  which  she 
hung  on  Maggie's  arm,  saying,  "Do  remember  to  eat  some- 
thing on  the  way,  dear."  Maggie's  heart  went  out  towards 
this  woman  whom  she  had  never  liked,  and  she  kissed  her 
silently.  It  was  the  first  sign  within  the  poor  child  of  that 
new  sense  which  is  the  gift  of  sorrow,  —  that  susceptibility  to 
the  bare  offices  of  humanity  which  raises  them  into  a  bond  of 
loving  fellowship,  as  to  haggard  men  among  the  icebergs  the 
mere  presence  of  an  ordinary  comrade  stirs  the  deep  fountains 
of  affection. 

Mr.  Stelling  put  his  hand  on  Tom's  shoulder  and  said,  "  God 
bless  you,  my  boy ;  let  me  know  how  you  get  on."  Then  he 
pressed  Maggie's  hand ;  but  there  were  no  audible  good-byes. 
Tom  had  so  often  thought  how  joyful  he  should  be  the  day  he 
left  school  "  for  good ! "  And  now  his  school  years  seemed 
like  a  holiday  that  had  come  to  an  end. 

The  two  slight  youthful  figures  soon  grew  indistinct  on  the 
distant  road,  —  were  soon  lost  behind  the  projecting  hedgerow. 

They  had  gone  forth  together  into  their  new  life  of  sorrow, 
and  they  would  never  more  see  the  sunshine  undimmed  by 
remembered  cares.  They  had  entered  the  thorny  wilderness, 
and  the  golden  gates  of  their  childhood  had  for  ever  closed 
behind  them. 


12 


BOOK    III. 

THE    DOWNFALL. 


CHAPTER   I. 

WHAT    HAD    HAPPENED    AT    HOME. 

WHEN  Mr.  Tulliver  first  knew  the  fact  that  the  lawsuit  was 
decided  against  him,  and  that  Pivart  and  Wakem  were  tri- 
umphant, every  one  who  happened  to  observe  him  at  the  time 
thought  that,  for  so  confident  and  hot-tempered  a  man,  he 
bore  the  blow  remarkably  well.  He  thought  so  himself ;  he 
thought  he  was  going  to  show  that  if  Wakem  or  anybody  else 
considered  him  crushed,  they  would  find  themselves  mistaken. 
He  could  not  refuse  to  see  that  the  costs  of  this  protracted 
suit  would  take  more  than  he  possessed  to  pay  them ;  but  he 
appeared  to  himself  to  be  full  of  expedients  by  which  he 
could  ward  off  any  results  but  such  as  were  tolerable,  and 
could  avoid  the  appearance  of  breaking  down  in  the  world. 
All  the  obstinacy  and  defiance  of  his  nature,  driven  out  of 
their  old  channel,  found  a  vent  for  themselves  in  the  imme- 
diate formation  of  plans  by  which  he  would  meet  his  diffi- 
culties, and  remain  Mr.  Tulliver  of  Dorlcote  Mill  in  spite  of 
them.  There  was  such  a  rush  of  projects  in  his  brain,  that  it 
was  no  wonder  his  face  was  flushed  when  he  came  away  from 
his  talk  with  his  attorney,  Mr.  Gore,  and  mounted  his  horse 
to  ride  home  from  Lindum.  There  was  Furley,  who  held  the 
mortgage  on  the  land,  —  a  reasonable  fellow,  who  would  see 
his  own  interest,  Mr.  Tulliver  was  convinced,  and  who  would 
be  glad  not  only  to  purchase  the  whole  estate,  including  the 
mill  and  homestead,  but  would  accept  Mr.  Tulliver  as  tenant, 
and  be  willing  to  advance  money  to  be  repaid  with  higli 
interest  out  of  the  profits  of  the  business,  which  would  be 
made  over  to  him,  Mr.  Tulliver  only  taking  enough  barely  to 
maintain  himself  and  his  family.  Who  would  neglect  such  a 
profitable  investment  ?  Certainly  not  Furley,  for  Mr.  Tulliver 
had  determined  that  Furley  should  meet  his  plans  with  the 


THE   DOWNFALL.  179 

utmost  alacrity  ;  and  there  are  men  whose  brains  have  not  yet 
been  dangerously  heated  by  the  loss  of  a  lawsuit,  who  are  apt 
to  see  in  their  own  interest  or  desires  a  motive  for  other  men's 
actions.  There  was  no  doubt  (in  the  miller's  mind)  that  Fur- 
ley  would  do  just  what  was  desirable ;  and  if  he  did  —  why, 
things  would  not  be  so  very  much  worse.  Mr.  Tulliver  and 
his  family  must  live  more  meagrely  and  humbly,  but  it  would 
only  be  till  the  profits  of  the  business  had  paid  off  Fur  ley's 
advances,  and  that  might  be  while  Mr.  Tulliver  had  still  a 
good  many  years  of  life  before  him.  It  was  clear  that  the 
costs  of  the  suit  could  be  paid  without  his  being  obliged  to 
turn  out  of  his  old  place,  and  look  like  a  ruined  man.  It 
was  certainly  an  awkward  moment  in  his  affairs.  There  was 
that  suretiship  for  poor  Riley,  who  had  died  suddenly  last 
April,  and  left  his  friend  saddled  with  a  debt  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  —  a  fact  which  had  helped  to  make  Mr.  Tul- 
liver's  banking  book  less  pleasant  reading  than  a  man  might 
desire  towards  Christmas.  Well !  he  had  never  been  one  of 
those  poor-spirited  sneaks  who  would  refuse  to  give  a  helping 
hand  to  a  fellow-traveller  in  this  puzzling  world.  The  really 
vexatious  business  was  the  fact  that  some  months  ago  the 
creditor  who  had  lent  him  the  five  hundred  pounds  to  repay 
Mrs.  Grlegg  had  become  uneasy  about  his  money  (set  on  by 
Wakem,  of  course),  and  Mr.  Tulliver,  still  confident  that  he 
should  gain  his  suit,  and  finding  it  eminently  inconvenient 
to  raise  the  said  sum  until  that  desirable  issue  had  taken 
place,  had  rashly  acceded  to  the  demand  that  he  should  give 
a  bill  of  sale  on  his  household  furniture  and  some  other 
effects,  as  security  in  lieu  of  the  bond.  It  was  all  one,  he  had 
said  to  himself;  he  should  soon  pay  off  the  money,  and  there 
was  no  harm  in  giving  that  security  any  more  than  another. 
But  now  the  consequences  of  this  bill  of  sale  occurred  to  him 
in  a  new  light,  and  he  remembered  that  the  time  was  close  at 
hand  when  it  would  be  enforced  unless  the  money  were 
repaid.  Two  months  ago  he  would  have  declared  stoutly  that 
he  would  never  be  beholden  to  his  wife's  friends ;  but  now  he 
told  himself  as  stoutly  that  it  was  nothing  but  right  and 
natural  that  Bessy  should  go  to  the  Pullets  and  explain  the 
thing  to  them;  they  would  hardly  let  Bessy's  furniture  be 
sold,  and  it  might  be  security  to  Pullet  if  he  advanced  the 
money,  —  there  would,  after  all,  be  no  gift  or  favour  in  the 
matter.  Mr.  Tulliver  would  never  have  asked  for  anything 
from  so  poor-spirited  a  fellow  for  himself,  but  Bessy  might  do 
so  if  she  liked. 


180  THE  MILL   ON  THE 

It  is  precisely  the  proudest  and  most  obstinate  men  who 
are  the  most  liable  to  shift  their  position  and  contradict  them- 
selves in  this  sudden  manner;  everything  is  easier  to  them 
than  to  face  the  simple  fact  that  they  have  been  thoroughly 
defeated,  and  must  begin  life  anew.  And  Mr.  Tulliver,  you 
perceive,  though  nothing  more  than  a  superior  miller  and 
maltster,  was  as  proud  and  obstinate  as  if  he  had  been  a  YI  r\ 
lofty  personage,  in  whom  such  dispositions  might  be  a  source 
of  that  conspicuous,  far-echoing  tragedy,  which  sweeps  the 
stage  in  regal  robes,  and  makes  the  dullest  chronicler  sublime. 
The  pride  and  obstinacy  of  millers  and  other  insignificant 
people,  whom  you  pass  unnoticingly  on  the  road  every  day, 
have  their  tragedy  too ;  but  it  is  of  that  unwept,  hidden  sort 
that  goes  on  from  generation  to  generation,  and  leaves  no 
record,  —  such  tragedy,  perhaps,  as  lies  in  the  conflicts  of 
young  souls,  hungry  for  joy,  under  a  lot  made  suddenly  hard 
to  them,  under  the  dreariness  of  a  home  where  the  morning 
brings  no  promise  with  it,  and  where  the  unexpectant  discon- 
tent of  worn  and  disappointed  parents  weighs  on  the  children 
like  a  damp,  thick  air,  in  which  all  the  functions  of  life  are 
depressed ;  or  such  tragedy  as  lies  in  the  slow  or  sudden  death 
that  follows  on  a  bruised  passion,  though  it  may  be  a  death 
that  finds  only  a  parish  funeral.  There  are  certain  animals  to 
which  tenacity  of  position  is  a  law  of  life,  —  they  can  never 
flourish  again,  after  a  single  wrench :  and  there  are  certain 
human  beings  to  whom  predominance  is  a  law  of  life,  —  they 
can  only  sustain  humiliation  so  long  as  they  can  refuse  to  be- 
lieve in  it,  and,  in  their  own  conception,  predominate  still. 

Mr.  Tulliver  was  still  predominating,  in  his  own  imagination, 
as  he  approached  St.  Ogg's,  through  which  he  had  to  pass  on 
his  way  homeward.  But  what  was  it  that  suggested  to  him, 
as  he  saw  the  Laceham  coach  entering  the  town,  to  follow  it  to 
the  coach-office,  and  get  the  clerk  there  to  write  a  letter,  re- 
qiiiring  Maggie  to  come  home  the  very  next  day  ?  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver's  own  hand  shook  too  much  under  his  excitement  for  him 
to  write  himself,  and  he  wanted  the  letter  to  be  given  to  the 
coachman  to  deliver  at  Miss  Firniss's  school  in  the  morning. 
There  was  a  craving  which  he  would  not  account  for  to  him- 
self, to  have  Maggie  near  him,  without  delay,  —  she  must 
come  back  by  the  coach  to-morrow. 

To  Mrs.  Tulliver,  when  he  got  home,  he  would  admit  no  dif- 
ficulties, and  scolded  down  her  burst  of  grief  on  hearing  that 
the  lawsuit  was  lost,  by  angry  assertions  that  there  was  noth- 
ing to  grieve  about.  He  said  nothing  to  her  that  night  about 


THE  DOWNFALL.  181 

the  bill  of  sale  and  the  application  to  Mrs.  Pullet,  for  he  had 
kept  her  in  ignorance  of  the  nature  of  that  transaction,  and 
had  explained  the  necessity  for  taking  an  inventory  of  the 
goods  as  a  matter  connected  with  his  will.  The  possession  of 
a  wife  conspicuously  one's  inferior  in  intellect  is,  like  other 
high  privileges,  attended  with  a  few  inconveniences,  and, 
among  the  rest,  with  the  occasional  necessity  for  using  a 
little  deception. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Tulliver  was  again  on  horseback  in  the 
afternoon,  on  his  way  to  Mr.  Gore's  office  at  St.  Ogg's.  Gore 
was  to  have  seen  Furley  in  the  morning,  and  to  have  sounded 
him  in  relation  to  Mr.  Tulliver's  affairs.  But  he  had  not  gone 
lialf-way  when  he  met  a  clerk  from  Mr.  Gore's  office,  who  was 
bringing  a  letter  to  Mr.  Tulliver.  Mr.  Gore  had  been  pre- 
vented by  a  sudden  call  of  business  from  waiting  at  his  office 
to  see  Mr.  Tulliver,  according  to  appointment,  but  would  be  at 
his  office  at  eleven  to-morrow  morning,  and  meanwhile  had 
sent  some  important  information  by  letter. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  taking  the  letter,  but  not  opening 
it.  "  Then  tell  Gore  I  '11  see  him  to-morrow  at  eleven  ;  "  and 
he  turned  his  horse. 

The  clerk,  struck  with  Mr.  Tulliver's  glistening,  excited 
glance,  looked  after  him  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  rode 
away.  The  reading  of  a  letter  was  not  the  affair  of  an 
instant  to  Mr.  Tulliver ;  he  took  in  the  sense  of  a  statement 
very  slowly  through  the  medium  of  written  or  even  printed 
characters  ;  so  he  had  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  thinking  he 
would  open  it  in  his  arm-chair  at  home.  But  by-and-by  it 
occurred  to  him  that  there  might  be  something  in  the  letter 
Mrs.  Tulliver  must  not  know  about,  and  if  so,  it  would  be 
better  to  keep  it  out  of  her  sight  altogether.  He  stopped  his 
horse,  took  out  the  letter,  and  read  it.  It  was  only  a  short 
letter ;  the  substance  was,  that  Mr.  Gore  had  ascertained, 
on  secret  but  sure  authority,  that  Furley  had  been  lately 
much  straitened  for  money,  and  had  parted  with  his  secu- 
rities, —  among  the  rest,  the  mortgage  on  Mr.  Tulliver's 
property,  which  he  had  transferred  to Wakem. 

In  half  an  hour  after  this  Mr.  Tulliver's  own  waggoner 
found  him  lying  by  the  roadside  insensible,  with  an  open 
letter  near  him,  and  his  grey  horse  snuffing  uneasily  about 
him. 

When  Maggie  reached  home  that  evening,  in  obedience 
to  her  father's  call,  he  was  no  longer  insensible.  About  an 
hour  before  he  had  become  conscious,  and  after  vague,  vacant 


182  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

looks  around  him,  had  muttered  something  about  "  a  letter," 
which  he  presently  repeated  impatiently.  At  the  instance  of 
Mr.  Turnbull,  the  medical  man,  Gore's  letter  was  brought 
and  laid  on  the  bed,  and  the  previous  impatience  seemed  to  be 
allayed.  The  stricken  man  lay  for  some  time  with  his  • 
fixed  on  the  letter,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  knit  up  his  thoughts 
by  its  help.  But  presently  a  new  wave  of  memory  seem*  • 
have  come  and  swept  the  other  away  ;  he  turned  his  eyes  from 
the  letter  to  the  door,  and  after  looking  uneasily,  as  if  striving 
to  see  something  his  eyes  were  too  dim  for,  he  said,  "  The  little 
wench." 

He  repeated  the  words  impatiently  from  time  to  time,  ap- 
pearing entirely  unconscious  of  everything  except  this  one 
importunate  want,  and  giving  no  sign  of  knowing  his  wife 
or  any  one  else  ;  and  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  her  feeble  faculties 
almost  paralysed  by  this  sudden  accumulation  of  troubles, 
went  backwards  and  forwards  to  the  gate  to  see  if  the 
Laceham  coach  were  coming,  though  it  was  not  yet  time. 

But  it  came  at  last,  and  set  down  the  poor  anxious  girl, 
no  longer  the  "little  wench,"  except  to  her  father's  fond 
memory. 

"  Oh,  mother,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  Maggie  said,  with  pale 
lips,  as  her  mother  came  towards  her  crying.  She  did  n't 
think  her  father  was  ill,  because  the  letter  had  come  at  his 
dictation  from  the  office  at  St.  Ogg's. 

But  Mr.  Turnbull  came  now  to  meet  her ;  a  medical  man  is 
the  good  angel  of  the  troubled  house,  and  Maggie  ran  towards 
the  kind  old  friend,  whom  she  remembered  as  long  as  she 
could  remember  anything,  with  a  trembling,  questioning  look. 

"  Don't  alarm  yourself  too  much,  my  dear,"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand.  "Your  father  has  had  a  sudden  attack,  and  lias  not 
quite  recovered  his  memory.  But  he  has  been  asking  for  yon, 
and  it  will  do  him  good  to  see  you.  Keep  as  quiet  as  you  can ; 
take  off  your  things,  and  come  up-stairs  with  me." 

Maggie  obeyed,  with  that  terrible  beating  of  the  heart  which 
makes  existence  seem  simply  a  painful  pulsation.  The  very 
quietness  with  which  Mr.  Turubull  spoke  had  frightened  her  sus- 
ceptible imagination.  Her  father's  eyes  were  still  turned  uneas- 
ily towards  the  door  when  she  entered  and  met  the  strange, 
yearning,  helpless  look  that  had  been  seeking  her  in  vain.  With 
a  sudden  flash  and  movement,  he  raised  himself  in  the  bed;  she 
rushed  towards  him,  and  clasped  him  with  agonised  kisses. 

Poor  child!  it  was  very  enrly  for  her  to  know  one  of  those 
supreme  moments  in  life  when  all  we  have  hoped  or  delighted 


THE  DOWNFALL.  183 

in,  all  we  can  dread  or  endure,  falls  away  from  our  regard  as 
insignificant;  is  lost,  like  a  trivial  memory,  in  that  simple, 
primitive  love  which  knits  us  to  the  beings  who  have  been 
nearest  to  us,  in  their  times  of  helplessness  or  of  anguish. 

But  that  flash  of  recognition  had  been  too  great  a  strain  on 
the  father's  bruised,  enfeebled  powers.  He  sank  back  again 
in  renewed  insensibility  and  rigidity,  which  lasted  for  many 
hours,  and  was  only  broken  by  a  flickering  return  of  conscious- 
ness, in  which  he  took  passively  everything  that  was  given  to 
him,  and  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  infantine  satisfaction  in 
Maggie's  near  presence,  —  such  satisfaction  as  a  baby  has  when 
it  is  returned  to  the  nurse's  lap. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  sent  for  her  sisters,  and  there  was  much  wail- 
ing and  lifting  up  of  hands  below  stairs.  Both  uncles  and 
aunts  saw  that  the  ruin  of  Bessy  and  her  family  was  as  com- 
plete as  they  had  ever  foreboded  it,  and  there  was  a  general 
family  sense  that  a  judgment  had  fallen  on  Mr.  Tulliver, 
which  it  would  be  an  impiety  to  counteract  by  too  much  kind- 
ness. But  Maggie  heard  little  of  this,  scarcely  ever  leaving 
her  father's  bedside,  where  she  sat  opposite  him  with  her 
hand  on  his.  Mrs.  Tulliver  wanted  to  have  Tom  fetched 
home,  and  seemed  to  be  thinking  more  of  her  boy  even  than 
of  her  husband ;  but  the  aunts  and  uncles  opposed  this.  Tom 
was  better  at  school,  since  Mr.  Turnbull  said  there  was  no 
immediate  danger,  he  believed.  But  at  the  end  of  the  second 
day,  when  Maggie  had  become  more  accustomed  to  her  father's 
fits  of  insensibility,  and  to  the  expectation  that  he  would 
revive  from  them,  the  thought  of  Tom  had  become  urgent 
with  her  too ;  and  when  her  mother  sate  crying  at  night  and 
saying,  "  My  poor  lad  —  it 's  nothing  but  right  he  should  come 
home,"  Maggie  said,  "  Let  me  go  for  him,  and  tell  him, 
mother ;  I  '11  go  to-morrow  morning  if  father  does  n't  know 
me  and  want  me.  It  would  be  so  hard  for  Tom  to  come  home 
and  not  know  anything  about  it  beforehand." 

And  the  next  morning  Maggie  went,  as  we  have  seen.  Sit- 
ting on  the  coach  on  their  way  home,  the  brother  and  sistci 
talked  to  each  other  in  sad,  interrupted  whispers. 

"  They  say  Mr.  Wakem  has  got  a  mortgage  or  something  on 
the  land,  Tom,"  said  Maggie.  "  It  was  the  letter  with  that 
news  in  it  that  made  father  ill,  they  think." 

"  I  believe  that  scoundrel 's  been  planning  all  along  to  ruin 
my  father,"  said  Tom,  leaping  from  the  vaguest  impressions 
to  a  definite  conclusion.  "  I  '11  make  him  feel  for  it  when  I  'm 
a  man.  Mind  you  never  speak  to  Philip  again." 


184  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

11  Oh,  Tom ! "  said  Maggie,  in  a  tone  of  sad  remonstrance ; 
but  she  had  no  spirit  to  dispute  anything  then,  still  less  to 
vex  Tom  by  opposing  him. 


CHAPTER  II. 
MRS.  TULLIVER'S  TERAPHIM,  OR  HOUSEHOLD  GODS. 

WIIEX  the  coach  set  down  Tom  and  Maggie,  it  was  five 
hours  since  she  had  started  from  home,  and  she  was  thinking 
with  some  trembling  that  her  father  had  perhaps  missed  her, 
and  asked  for  "  the  little  wench  "  in  vain.  She  thought  of  no 
other  change  that  might  have  happened. 

She  hurried  along  the  gravel-walk  and  entered  the  house 
before  Tom ;  but  in  the  entrance  she  was  startled  by  a  strong 
smell  of  tobacco.  The  parlour  door  was  ajar;  that  was 
where  the  smell  came  from.  It  was  very  strange ;  could  any 
visitor  be  smoking  at  a  time  like  this  ?  Was  her  mother 
there  ?  If  so,  she  must  be  told  that  Tom  was  come.  Maggie, 
after  this  pause  of  surprise,  was  only  in  the  act  of  opening 
the  door  when  Tom  came  up,  and  they  both  looked  into  the 
parlour  together.  There  was  a  coarse,  dingy  man,  of  whose 
face  Tom  had  some  vague  recollection,  sitting  in  his  father's 
chair,  smoking,  with  a  jug  and  glass  beside  him. 

The  truth  flashed  on  Tom's  mind  in  an  instant.  To  u  have 
the  bailiff  in  the  house,"  and  "to  be  sold  up,"  were  phrases 
which  he  had  been  used  to,  even  as  a  little  boy ;  they  were 
part  of  the  disgrace  and  misery  of  "failing,"  of  losing  all 
one's  money,  and  being  ruined,  —  sinking  into  the  condition  of 
poor  working  people.  It  seemed  only  natural  this  should 
Irippen,  since  his  father  had  lost  all  his  property,  and  he 
i'-,rlit  of  no  more  special  cause  for  this  particular  form  of 
•  trtune  than  the  loss  of  the  lawsuit.  But  the  immediate 
presence  of  this  disgrace  was  so  much  keener  an  experience  to 
Tom  than  the  worst  form  of  apprehension,  that  he  felt  at  this 
moment  as  if  his  real  trouble  had  only  j\ist  begun ;  it  was  a 
touch  on  the  irritated  nerve  compared  with  its  spontaneous 
dull  aching. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  "  said  the  man,  taking  the  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth,  with  rough,  embarrassed  civility.  The  two 
young  startled  faces  made  him  a  little  uncomfortable. 


THE  DOWNFALL.  185 

But  Tom  turned  away  hastily  without  speaking ;  the  sight 
was  too  hateful.  Maggie  had  not  understood  the  appearance 
of  this  stranger,  as  Tom  had.  She  followed  him,  whispering, 
"Who  can  it  be,  Tom?  What  is  the  matter?"  Then,  with 
a  sudden  undefined  dread  lest  this  stranger  might  have  some- 
thing to  do  with  a  change  in  her  father,  she  rushed  up-stairs, 
checking  herself  at  the  bedroom  door  to  throw  off  her  bonnet, 
and  enter  on  tiptoe.  All  was  silent  there ;  her  father  was 
lying,  heedless  of  everything  around  him,  with  his  eyes  closed 
as  when  she  had  left  him.  A  servant  was  there,  but  not  her 
mother. 

"  Where 's  my  mother  ?  "  she  whispered.  The  servant  did 
not  know. 

Maggie  hastened  out,  and  said  to  Tom,  "  Father  is  lying  quiet ; 
let  us  go  and  look  for  my  mother.  I  wonder  where  she  is." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  not  down-stairs,  not  in  any  of  the  bed- 
rooms. There  was  but  one  room  below  the  attic  which 
Maggie  had  left  unsearched ;  it  was  the  store-room,  where 
her  mother  kept  all  her  linen  and  all  the  precious  "best 
things  "  that  were  only  unwrapped  and  brought  out  on  special 
occasions.  Tom,  preceding  Maggie  as  they  returned  along 
the  passage,  opened  the  door  of  this  room,  and  immediately 
said,  "Mother!" 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  seated  there  with  all  her  laid-up  treas- 
ures. One  of  the  linen  chests  was  open;  the  silver  teapot 
was  unwrapped  from  its  many  folds  of  paper,  and  the  best 
china  was  laid  out  on  the  top  of  the  closed  linen-chest ;  spoons 
and  skewers  and  ladles  were  spread  in  rows  on  the  shelves  ; 
and  the  poor  woman  was  shaking  her  head  and  weeping, 
with  a  bitter  tension  of  the  mouth,  over  the  mark,  "  Elizabeth 
Dodson,"  on  the  corner  of  some  tablecloths  she  held  in 
her  lap. 

She  dropped  them,  and  started  up  as  Tom  spoke. 

"  Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy  !  "  she  said,  clasping  him  round  the 
neck.  "  To  think  as  I  should  live  to  see  this  day  !  We  're 
ruined  —  everything  's  going  to  be  sold  up  — to  think  as  your 
father  should  ha'  married  me  to  bring  me  to  this  !  We  've 
got  nothing  —  we  shall  be  beggars  —  we  must  go  to  the 
workhouse  —  " 

She  kissed  him,  then  seated  herself  again,  and  took  another 
tablecloth  on  her  lap,  unfolding  it  a  little  way  to  look  at 
the  pattern,  while  the  children  stood  by  in  mute  wretchedness, 
their  minds  quite  filled  for  the  moment  with  the  words 
"beggars"  and  "workhouse." 


186  THE  JUILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

"  To  think  o'  these  cloths  as  I  spun  myself,"  she  went  on, 
lifting  things  out  and  turning  them  over  with  an  excitement 
all  the  more  strange  and  piteous  because  the  stout  blond 
woman  was  usually  so  passive,  —  if  she  had  been  ruffled  before, 
it  was  at  the  surface  merely,  —  "  and  Job  Haxey  wove  'em,  and 
brought  the  piece  home  on  his  back,  as  I  remember  standing 
at  the  door  and  seeing  him  come,  before  I  ever  thought  o' 
marrying  your  father !  And  the  pattern  as  I  chose  myself, 
and  bleached  so  beautiful,  and  I  marked  'em  so  as  nobody 
ever  saw  such  marking,  —  they  must  cut  the  cloth  to  get  it 
out,  for  it 's  a  particular  stitch.  And  they  're  all  to  be  sold, 
and  go  into  strange  people's  houses,  and  perhaps  be  cut  with 
the  knives,  and  wore  out  before  I  'm  dead.  You  '11  never 
have  one  of  'em,  my  boy,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  Tom  with  her 
eyes  full  of  tears,  "  and  I  meant  'em  for  you.  I  wanted  you 
to  have  all  o'  this  pattern.  Maggie  could  have  had  the  large 
check  —  it  never  shows  so  well  when  the  dishes  are  on  it." 

Tom  was  touched  to  the  quick,  but  there  was  an  angry 
reaction  immediately.  His  face  flushed  as  he  said,  — 

"  But  will  my  aunts  let  them  be  sold,  mother  ?  Do  they 
know  about  it  ?  They  '11  never  let  your  linen  go,  will  they  ? 
Have  n't  you  sent  to  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  sent  Luke  directly  they  'd  put  the  bailies  in,  and 
your  aunt  Pullet 's  been  —  and,  oh  dear,  oh  dear,  she  cries  so 
and  says  your  father 's  disgraced  my  family  and  made  it  the 
talk  o'  the  country;  and  she'll  buy  the  spotted  cloths  for 
herself,  because  she 's  never  had  so  many  as  she  wanted 
o'  that  pattern,  and  they  sha'n't  go  to  strangers,  but  she  's  got 
more  checks  a'ready  nor  she  can  do  with."  (Here  Mrs. 
Tulliver  began  to  lay  back  the  tablecloths  in  the  chest,  fold- 
ing and  stroking  them  automatically.)  "  And  your  uncle 
Glegg  's  been  too,  and  he  says  things  must  be  bought  in  for 
us  to  lie  down  on,  but  he  must  talk  to  your  aunt ;  and  they  're 
all  coming  to  consult.  But  I  know  they  '11  none  of  'em  take 
my  chany,"  she  added,  turning  towards  the  cups  and  saucers, 
"  for  they  all  found  fault  with  'em  when  I  bought  'em,  'cause 
o'  the  small  gold  sprig  all  over  'em,  between  the  flowers. 
But  there  's  none  of  'em  got  better  chany,  not  even  your  aunt 
Pullet  herself ;  and  I  bought  it  wi'  my  own  money  as  I  'd 
saved  ever  since  I  was  turned  fifteen ;  and  the  silver  tea- 
pot, too,  —  your  father  never  paid  for  'em.  And  to  think 
as  he  should  ha'  married  me,  and  brought  me  to  this." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  burst  out  crying  afresh,  and  she  sobbed  with 
her  handkerchief  at  her  eyes  a  few  moments,  but  then  r 


THE  DOWNFALL.  187 

ing  it,  she  said  in  a  deprecating  way,  still  half  sobbing,  as  if 
she  were  called  upon  to  speak  before  she  could  command  her 
voice,  — 

"  And  I  did  say  to  him  times  and  times,  '  Whativer  you  do, 
don't  go  to  law, '  and  what  more  could  I  do  ?  I  've  had  to 
sit  by  while  my  own  fortin  's  been  spent,  and  what  should  ha' 
been  my  children's,  too.  You  '11  have  niver  a  penny,  my  boy 
—  but  it  is  n't  your  poor  mother's  fault." 

She  put  out  one  arm  towards  Tom,  looking  up  at  him 
piteously  with  her  helpless,  childish  blue  eyes.  The  poor  lad 
went  to  her  and  kissed  her,  and  she  clung  to  him.  For  the 
first  time  Tom  thought  of  his  father  with  some  reproach. 
His  natural  inclination  to  blame,  hitherto  kept  entirely  in 
abeyance  towards  his  father  by  the  predisposition  to  think 
him  always  right,  simply  on  the  ground  that  he  was  Tom 
Tulliver's  father,  was  turned  into  this  new  channel  by  his 
mother's  plaints ;  and  with  his  indignation  against  Wakem 
there  began  to  mingle  some  indignation  of  another  sort. 
Perhaps  his  father  might  have  helped  bringing  them  all  down 
in  the  world,  and  making  people  talk  of  them  with  contempt, 
but  no  one  should  talk  long  of  Tom  Tulliver  with  contempt. 
The  natural  strength  and  firmness  of  his  nature  was  beginning 
to  assert  itself,  urged  by  the  double  stimulus  of  resentment 
against  his  aunts,  and  the  sense  that  he  must  behave  like  a 
man  and  take  care  of  his  mother. 

"  Don't  fret,  mother,"  he  said  tenderly.  "  I  shall  soon  be 
able  to  get  money  ;  I  '11  get  a  situation  of  some  sort." 

"  Bless  you,  my  boy  ! "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  a  little  soothed. 
Then,  looking  round  sadly,  "But  I  shouldn't  ha'  minded  so 
much  if  we  could  ha'  kept  the  things  wi'  my  name  on  'em." 

Maggie  had  witnessed  this  scene  with  gathering  auger. 
The  implied  reproaches  against  her  father  —  her  father,  who 
was  lying  there  in  a  sort  of  living  death  —  neutralised  all  her 
pity  for  griefs  about  tablecloths  and  china ;  and  her  anger 
on  her  father's  account  was  heightened  by  some  egoistic 
resentment  at  Tom's  silent  concurrence  with  her  mother  in 
shutting  her  out  from  the  common  calamity.  She  had  become 
almost  indifferent  to  her  mother's  habitual  depreciation  of 
her,  but  she  was  keenly  alive  to  any  sanction  of  it,  however 
passive,  that  she  might  suspect  in  Tom.  Poor  Maggie  was 
by  no  means  made  up  of  unalloyed  devotedness,  but  put  forth 
large  claims  for  herself  where  she  loved  strongly.  She  burst 
out  at  last  in  an  agitated,  almost  violent  tone,  "  Mother,  how 
can  you  talk  so  ;  as  if  you  cared  only  for  things  with  your 


188  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

name  on,  and  not  for  what  has  my  father's  name  too ;  and  to 
care  about  anything  but  dear  father  himself !  —  when  he 's  lying 
there,  and  may  never  speak  to  us  again.  Tom,  you  ought  to 
say  so  too ;  you  ought  not  to  let  any  one  find  fault  with  my 
father." 

Maggie,  almost  choked  with  mingled  grief  and  anger,  left 
the  room,  and  took  her  old  place  on  her  father's  bed.  Her 
heart  went  out  to  him  with  a  stronger  movement  than  ever, 
at  the  thought  that  people  would  blame  him.  Maggie  hated 
blame  ;  she  had  been  blamed  all  her  life,  and  nothing  had 
come  of  it  but  evil  tempers.  Her  father  had  always  defended 
and  excused  her,  and  her  loving  remembrance  of  his  tender- 
ness was  a  force  within  her  that  would  enable  her  to  do  or 
bear  anything  for  his  sake. 

Tom  was  a  little  shocked  at  Maggie's  outburst,  —  telling 
him  as  well  as  his  mother  what  it  was  right  to  do  !  She 
ought  to  have  learned  better  than  have  those  hectoring,  assum- 
ing manners,  by  this  time.  But  he  preseutly  went  into  his 
father's  room,  and  the  sight  there  touched  him  in  a  way  that 
effaced  the  slighter  impressions  of  the  previous  hour.  When 
Maggie  saw  how  he  was  moved,  she  went  to  him  and  put  her 
arm  round  his  neck  as  he  sat  by  the  bed,  and  the  two  children 
forgot  everything  else  in  the  sense  that  they  had  one  father 
and  one  sorrow. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE    FAMILY    COUNCIL. 

IT  was  at  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning  that  the  aunts 
and  uncles  came  to  hold  their  consultation.  The  fire  was 
lighted  in  the  large  parlour,  and  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  a 
confused  impression  that  it  was  a  great  occasion,  like  a  fune- 
ral, unbagged  the  bell-rope  tassels,  and  unpinned  the  curtains, 
adjusting  them  in  proper  folds,  looking  round  and  shaking 
her  head  sadly  at  the  polished  tops  and  legs  of  the  tables, 
which  sister  Pullet  herself  could  not  accuse  of  insufficient 
brightness. 

Mr.  Deane  was  not  coming,  he  was  away  on  business ;  but 
Mrs.  Deane  appeared  punctually  in  that  handsome  new  gig 
with  the  head  to  it,  and  the  livery-servant  driving  it,  which 


THE  DOWNFALL.  189 

had  thrown  so  clear  a  light  on  several  traits  in  her  character 
to  some  of  her  female  friends  in  St.  Ogg's.  Mr.  Deane  had 
been  advancing  in  the  world  as  rapidly  as  Mr.  Tulliver  had 
being  going  down  in  it ;  and  in  Mrs.  Deane's  house  the  Dod- 
son  linen  and  plate  were  beginning  to  hold  quite  a  subordinate 
position,  as  a  mere  supplement  to  the  handsomer  articles  of 
the  same  kind,  purchased  in  recent  years,  —  a  change  which  had 
caused  an  occasional  coolness  in  the  sisterly  intercourse  be- 
tween her  and  Mrs.  Glegg,  who  felt  that  Susan  was  getting 
"like  the  rest,"  and  there  would  soon  be  little  of  the  true 
Dodson  spirit  surviving  except  in  herself,  and,  it  might  be 
hoped,  in  those  nephews  who  supported  the  Dodson  name  on 
the  family  land,  far  away  in  the  Wolds.  People  who  live  at  a 
distance  are  naturally  less  faulty  than  those  immediately  under 
our  own  eyes ;  and  it  seems  superfluous,  when  we  consider  the 
remote  geographical  position  of  the  Ethiopians,  and  how  very 
little  the  Greeks  had  to  do  with  them,  to  inquire  further  why 
Homer  calls  them  "  blameless." 

Mrs.  Deane  was  the  first  to  arrive ;  and  when  she  had  taken 
her  seat  in  the  large  parlour,  Mrs.  Tulliver  came  down  to  her 
with  her  comely  face  a  little  distorted,  nearly  as  it  would  have 
been  if  she  had  been  crying.  She  was  not  a  woman  who  could 
shed  abundant  tears,  except  in  moments  when  the  prospect  of 
losing  her  furniture  became  unusually  vivid,  but  she  felt  how 
unfitting  it  was  to  be  quite  calm  under  present  circumstances. 

"  Oh,  sister,  what  a  world  this  is ! "  she  exclaimed  as  she 
entered ;  "  what  trouble,  oh  dear ! " 

Mrs.  Deane  was  a  thin-lipped  woman,  who  made  small  well- 
considered  speeches  on  peculiar  occasions,  repeating  them  after- 
wards to  her  husband,  and  asking  him  if  she  had  not  spoken 
very  properly. 

"Yes,  sister,"  she  said  deliberately,  "this  is  a  changing 
world,  and  we  don't  know  to-day  what  may  happen  to-morrow. 
But  it 's  right  to  be  prepared  for  all  things,  and  if  trouble  's 
sent,  to  remember  as  it  is  n't  sent  without  a  cause.  I  'm  very 
sorry  for  you  as  a  sister,  and  if  the  doctor  orders  jelly  for  Mr. 
Tulliver,  I  hope  you  '11  let  me  know.  I  '11  send  it  willingly ; 
for  it  is  but  right  he  should  have  proper  attendance  while 
he's  ill." 

"Thank  you,  Susan,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  rather  faintly, 
withdrawing  her  fat  hand  from  her  sister's  thin  one.  "But 
there 's  been  no  talk  o'  jelly  yet."  Then  after  a  moment's 
pause  she  added,  "  There 's  a  dozen  o'  cut  jelly -glasses  up- 
stairs —  I  shall  never  put  jelly  into  'em  no  more." 


THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Her  voice  was  rather  agitated  as  she  uttered  the  last  words, 
but  the  sound  of  wheels  diverted  her  thoughts.  Mr.  and  .Mrs. 
Glegg  were  come,  and  were  almost  immediately  followed  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pullet. 

Mrs.  Pullet  entered  crying,  as  a  compendious  mode,  at  all 
times,  of  expressing  what  were  her  views  of  life  in  general, 
and  what,  in  brief,  were  the  opinions  she  held  concerning  the 
particular  case  before  her. 

Mrs.  Glegg  had  on  her  fuzziest  front,  and  garments  which 
appeared  to  have  had  a  recent  resurrection  from  rather  a  creasy 
form  of  burial ;  a  costume  selected  with  the  high  moral  purpose 
of  instilling  perfect  humility  into  Bessy  and  her  children. 

"  Mrs.  G-.,  won't  you  come  nearer  the  fire  ?  "  said  her  hus- 
band, unwilling  to  take  the  more  comfortable  seat  without 
offering  it  to  her. 

"You  see  I've  seated  myself  here,  Mr.  Glegg,"  returned 
this  superior  woman  ;  "  you  can  roast  yourself,  if  you 
like." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  seating  himself  good-humouredly, 
"  and  how 's  the  poor  man  up-stairs  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Turnbull  thought  him  a  deal  better  this  morning,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver;  "he  took  more  notice,  and  spoke  to  me;  but 
he 's  never  known  Tom  yet,  —  looks  at  the  poor  lad  as  if  he 
was  a  stranger,  though  he  said  something  once  about  Tom 
and  the  pony.  The  doctor  says  his  memory 's  gone  a  long  way 
back,  and  he  does  n't  know  Tom  because  he  's  thinking  of  him 
when  he  was  little.  Eh  dear,  eh  dear ! " 

"  I  doubt  it 's  the  water  got  on  his  brain,"  said  aunt  Pullet, 
turning  round  from  adjusting  her  cap  in  a  melancholy  way  at 
the  pier-glass.  "  It 's  much  if  he  ever  gets  up  again ;  and  if  he 
does,  he  '11  most  like  be  childish,  as  Mr.  Carr  was,  poor  man ! 
They  fed  him  with  a  spoon  as  if  he  'd  been  a  babby  for  three 
year.  He  'd  quite  lost  the  use  of  his  limbs ;  but  then  he  'd  got 
a  Bath  chair,  and  somebody  to  draw  him ;  and  that 's  what  you 
won't  have,  I  doubt,  Bessy." 

"Sister  Pullet,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  severely,  "if  I  under- 
stand right,  we  've  come  together  this  morning  to  advise  and 
consult  about  what 's  to  be  done  in  this  disgrace  as  has  fallen 
upon  the  family,  and  not  to  talk  o'  people  as  don't  belong  to  us. 
Mr.  Carr  was  none  of  our  blood,  nor  noways  connected  with 
us,  as  I've  ever  heared." 

"  Sister  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  in  a  pleading  tone,  draw- 
ing on  her  gloves  again,  and  stroking  the  fingers  in  an  agitated 
manner,  "  if  you  've  got  anything  disrespectful  to  say  o'  Mr. 


THE  DOWNFALL.  191 

Carr,  I  do  beg  of  you  as  you  won't  say  it  to  me.  /  know 
what  he  was,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh ;  "  his  breath  was  short 
to  that  degree  as  you  could  hear  him  two  rooms  off." 

"  Sophy  !  "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  indignant  disgust,  "  you 
do  talk  o'  people's  complaints  till  it 's  quite  undecent.  But  I 
say  again,  as  I  said  before,  I  did  n't  come  away  from  home  to 
talk  about  acquaintance,  whether  they  'd  short  breath  or  long. 
If  we  are  n't  come  together  for  one  to  hear  what  the  other 
'ull  do  to  save  a  sister  and  her  children  from  the  parish,  / 
shall  go  back.  One  can't  act  without  the  other,  I  suppose ;  it 
is  n't  to  be  expected  as  /  should  do  everything." 

"Well,  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "I  don't  see  as  you've 
been  so  very  forrard  at  doing.  So  far  as  I  know,  this  is  the 
first  time  as  here  you  've  been,  since  it 's  been  known  as  the 
bailiff 's  in  the  house ;  and  I  was  here  yesterday,  and  looked 
at  all  Bessy's  linen  and  things,  and  I  told  her  I  'd  buy  in  the 
spotted  tablecloths.  I  couldn't  speak  fairer;  for  as  for  the 
teapot  as  she  does  n't  want  to  go  out  o'  the  family,  it  stands 
to  sense  I  can't  do  with  two  silver  teapots,  not  if  it  hadn't  a 
straight  spout,  but  the  spotted  damask  I  was  allays  fond  on." 

"  I  wish  it  could  be  managed  so  as  my  teapot  and  chany 
and  the  best  castors  needn't  be  put  up  for  sale,"  said  poor 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  beseechingly,  "and  the  sugar-tongs,  the  first 
things  ever  I  bought." 

"  But  that  can't  be  helped,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "  If 
one  o'  the  family  chooses  to  buy  'em  in,  they  can,  but  one  thing 
must  be  bid  for  as  well  as  another." 

"And  it  isn't  to  be  looked  for,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  with 
unwonted  independence  of  idea,  "  as  your  own  family  should 
pay  more  for  things  nor  they  '11  fetch.  They  may  go  for  an 
old  song  by  auction." 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "to  think  o'  my 
chany  being  sold  i'  that  way,  and  I  bought  it  when  I  was 
married,  just  as  you  did  yours,  Jane  and  Sophy ;  and  I  know 
you  did  n't  like  mine,  because  o'  the  sprig,  but  I  was  fond  of 
it ;  and  there 's  never  been  a  bit  broke,  for  I  've  washed  it  my- 
self ;  and  there 's  the  tulips  on  the  cups,  and  the  roses,  as 
anybody  might  go  and  look  at  'em  for  pleasure.  You  would  n't 
like  your  chany  to  go  for  an  old  song  and  be  broke  to  pieces, 
though  yours  has  got  no  colour  in  it,  Jane,  —  it 's  all  white  and 
fluted,  and  did  n't  cost  so  much  as  mine.  And  there 's  the 
castors,  sister  Deane,  I  can't  think  but  you'd  like  to  have  the 
castors,  for  I  've  heard  you  say  they  're  pretty." 

"  Well,  I  've  no  objection  to  buy  some  of  the  best  things," 


192  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

said  Mrs.  Deane,  rather  loftily ;  "  we  can  do  with  extra  things 
in  our  house." 

"  Best  things  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  severity,  which 
had  gathered  intensity  from  her  long  silence.  "  It  drives  me 
past  patience  to  hear  you  all  talking  o'  best  things,  and  buy- 
ing in  this,  that,  and  the  other,  such  as  silver  and  chany.  You 
must  bring  your  mind  to  your  circumstances,  Bessy,  and  not 
be  thinking  o'  silver  and  chany ;  but  whether  you  shall  get  so 
much  as  a  flock-bed  to  lie  on,  and  a  blanket  to  cover  you,  and  a 
stool  to  sit  on.  You  must  remember,  if  you  get  'em,  it  '11  be 
because  your  friends  have  bought  'em  for  you,  for  you  're  de- 
pendent upon  them  for  everything ;  for  your  husband  lies 
there  helpless,  and  has  n't  got  a  penny  i'  the  world  to  call  his 
own.  And  it 's  for  your  own  good  I  say  this,  for  it 's  right 
you  should  feel  what  your  state  is,  and  what  disgrace  your 
husband  's  brought  on  your  own  family,  as  you  've  got  to  look 
to  for  everything,  and  be  humble  in  your  mind." 

Mrs.  Glegg  paused,  for  speaking  with  much  energy  for 
the  good  of  others  is  naturally  exhausting.  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
always  borne  down  by  the  family  predominance  of  sister 
Jane,  who  had  made  her  wear  the  yoke  of  a  younger  sister 
in  very  tender  years,  said  pleadingly,  — 

"  I  'm  sure,  sister,  I  've  never  asked  anybody  to  do  anything, 
only  buy  things  as  it  'ud  be  a  pleasure  to  'em  to  have,  so  as 
they  might  n't  go  and  be  spoiled  i'  strange  houses.  I  never 
asked  anybody  to  buy  the  things  in  for  me  and  my  children  ; 
though  there  's  the  linen  I  spun,  and  I  thought  when  Tom  was 
born,  —  I  thought  one  o'  the  first  things  when  he  was  lying  i' 
the  cradle,  as  all  the  things  I'd  bought  wi'  my  own  money, 
and  been  so  careful  of,  'ud  go  to  him.  But  I  've  said  nothing 
as  I  wanted  my  sisters  to  pay  their  money  for  me.  What  my 
husband  has  done  for  his  sister  's  unknown,  and  we  should  ha' 
been  better  off  this  day  if  it  had  n't  been  as  he  's  lent  money 
and  never  asked  for  it  again." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  kindly,  "  don't  let  us  make 
things  too  dark.  What's  done  can't  be  undone.  We  shall 
make  a  shift  among  us  to  buy  what 's  sufficient  for  you ; 
though,  as  Mrs.  G.  says,  they  must  be  useful,  plain  things. 
We  must  n't  be  thinking  o'  what 's  unnecessary.  A  table,  and 
a  chair  or  two,  and  kitchen  things,  and  a  good  bed,  and  such- 
like. Why,  I  've  seen  the  day  when  I  should  n't  ha'  known 
myself  if  I  'd  lain  on  sacking  i'stead  o'  the  floor.  We  get  a 
deal  o'  useless  things  about  us,  only  because  we  've  got  the 
money  to  spend." 


THE  DOWNFALL.  193 

"  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  "  if  you  '11  be  kind  enough  to  let 
me  speak,  i'stead  o'  taking  the  words  out  o'  my  mouth,  —  I 
was  going  to  say,  Bessy,  as  it 's  fine  talking  for  you  to  say  as 
you  've  never  asked  us  to  buy  anything  for  you ;  let  me  tell 
you,  you  ought  to  have  asked  us.  Pray,  how  are  you  to  be 
purvided  for,  if  your  own  family  don't  help  you  ?  You  must 
go  to  the  parish,  if  they  didn't.  And  you  ought  to  know 
that,  and  keep  it  in  mind,  and  ask  us  humble  to  do  what  we 
can  for  you,  i'stead  o'  saying,  and  making  a  boast,  as  you  've 
never  asked  us  for  anything." 

"  You  talked  o'  the  Mosses,  and  what  Mr.  Tulliver  's  done 
for  'em,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  who  became  unusually  suggestive 
where  advances  of  money  were  concerned.  "  Have  n't  they 
been  anear  you  ?  They  ought  to  do  something  as  well  as 
other  folks  ;  and  if  he  's  lent  'em  money,  they  ought  to  be 
made  to  pay  it  back." 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Deane ;  "  I  've  been  thinking 
so.  How  is  it  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moss  are  n't  here  to  meet  us  ?  It 
is  but  right  they  should  do  their  share." 

"  Oh  dear  !  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "  I  never  sent  'em  word 
about  Mr.  Tulliver,  and  they  live  so  back'ard  among  the 
lanes  at  Basset,  they  niver  hear  anything  only  when  Mr. 
Moss  comes  to  market.  But  I  niver  gave  'em  a  thought.  I 
wonder  Maggie  didn't,  though,  for  she  was  allays  so  fond 
of  her  aunt  Moss." 

"  Why  don't  your  children  come  in,  Bessy  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Pullet,  at  the  mention  of  Maggie.  "  They  should  hear  what 
their  aunts  and  uncles  have  got  to  say ;  and  Maggie,  —  when  it 's 
me  as  have  paid  for  half  her  schooling,  she  ought  to  think 
more  of  her  aunt  Pullet  than  of  aunt  Mosses.  I  may  go  off 
sudden  when  I  get  home  to-day ;  there 's  no  telling." 

"  If  I  'd  had  my  way,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  "  the  children  'ud 
ha'  been  in  the  room  from  the  first.  It 's  time  they  knew  who 
they  've  to  look  to,  and  it 's  right  as  somebody  should  talk  to 
'em,  and  let  'em  know  their  condition  i'  life,  and  what  they  're 
come  down  to,  and  make  'em  feel  as  they  've  got  to  suffer  for 
their  father's  faults." 

"  Well,  I  '11  go  and  fetch  'em,  sister,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  re- 
signedly. She  was  quite  crushed  now,  and  thought  of  the 
treasures  in  the  store-room  with  no  other  feeling  than  blank 
despair. 

She  went  up-stairs  to  fetch  Tom  and  Maggie,  who  were  both 
in  their  father's  room,  and  was  on  her  way  down  again,  when 
the  sight  of  the  store-room  door  suggested  a  new  thought  to 


194  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

her.  She  went  towards  it,  and  left  the  children  to  go  down 
by  themselves. 

The  aunts  and  uncles  appeared  to  have  been  in  warm  dis- 
cussion when  the  brother  and  sister  entered,  —  both  with 
shrinking  reluctance;  for  though  Tom,  with  a  practical  sa- 
gacity which  had  been  roused  into  activity  by  the  strong 
stimulus  of  the  new  emotions  he  had  undergone  since  yes- 
terday, had  been  turning  over  in  his  mind  a  plan  which  he 
meant  to  propose  to  one  of  his  aunts  or  uncles,  he  felt  by  no 
means  amicably  towards  them,  and  dreaded  meeting  them  all 
at  once  as  he  would  have  dreaded  a  large  dose  of  concentrated 
physic,  which  was  but  just  endurable  in  small  draughts.  As 
for  Maggie,  she  was  peculiarly  depressed  this  morning;  she 
had  been  called  up,  after  brief  rest,  at  three  o'clock,  and  had 
that  strange  dreamy  weariness  which  comes  from  watching 
in  a  sick-room  through  the  chill  hours  of  early  twilight  and 
breaking  day,  —  in  which  the  outside  daylight  life  seems  to 
have  no  importance,  and  to  be  a  mere  margin  to  the  hours  in 
the  darkened  chamber.  Their  entrance  intorniptcd  the  con- 
versation. The  shaking  of  hands  was  a  melancholy  and  si- 
lent ceremony,  till  uncle  Pullet  observed,  as  Tom  approached 
him,  — 

"  Well,  young  sir,  we  've  been  talking  as  we  should  want 
your  pen  and  ink ;  you  can  write  rarely  now,  after  all  your 
schooling,  I  should  think." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  uncle  Glegg,  with  admonition  which  he 
meant  to  be  kind,  "we  must  look  to  see  the  good  of  all 
this  schooling,  as  your  father 's  sunk  so  much  money  in, 
now,  — 

'  When  land  is  gone  and  money  's  spent, 
Then  learning  is  most  excellent.' 

Now  's  the  time,  Tom,  to  let  us  see  the  good  o'  your  learning. 
Let  us  see  whether  you  can  do  better  than  I  can,  as  have  made 
my  fortin  without  it.  But  I  began  wi'  doing  with  little,  you 
see  ;  I  could  live  on  a  basin  o'  porridge  and  a  crust  o'  bread- 
and-cheese.  But  I  doubt  high  living  and  high  learning  'ull 
make  it  harder  for  you,  young  man,  nor  it  was  for  me." 

"  But  he  must  do  it,"  interposed  aunt  Glegg,  energetically, 
"  whether  it 's  hard  or  no.  He  has  n't  got  to  consider  what 's 
hard  ;  he  must  consider  as  he  is  n't  to  trusten  to  his  friends  to 
keep  him  in  idleness  and  luxury ;  he  's  got  to  bear  the  fruits 
of  his  father's  misconduct,  and  bring  his  mind  to  fare  hard 
and  to  work  hard.  And  he  must  be  humble  and  grateful  to 


THE  DOWNFALL.  195 

his  aunts  and  uncles  for  what  they're  doing  for  his  mother 
and  father,  as  must  be  turned  out  into  the  streets  and  go  to 
the  workhouse  if  they  did  n't  help  'em.  And  his  sister,  too," 
continued  Mrs.  Glegg,  looking  severely  at  Maggie,  who  had 
sat  down  on  the  sofa  by  her  aunt  Deane,  drawn  to  her  by  the 
sense  that  she  was  Lucy's  mother,  "  she  must  make  up  her 
mind  to  be  humble  and  work ;  for  there  '11  be  no  servants 
to  wait  on  her  any  more,  —  she  must  remember  that.  She 
must  do  the  work  o'  the  house,  and  she  must  respect  and 
love  her  aunts  as  have  done  so  much  for  her,  and  saved 
their  money  to  leave  to  their  nepheys  and  nieces." 

Tom  was  still  standing  before  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the 
group.  There,  was  a  heightened  colour  in  his  face,  and  he  was 
very  far  from  looking  humbled,  but  he  was  preparing  to  say, 
in  a  respectful  tone,  something  he  had  previously  meditated, 
when  the  door  opened  and  his  mother  re-entered. 

Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  in  her  hands  a  small  tray,  on 
which  she  had  placed  her  silver  teapot,  a  specimen  teacup 
and  saucer,  the  castors,  and  sugar-tongs. 

"  See  here,  sister,"  she  said,  looking  at  Mrs.  Deane,  as 
she  set  the  tray  on  the  table,  "I  thought,  perhaps,  if  you 
looked  at  the  teapot  again,  —  it 's  a  good  while  since  you 
saw  it,  —  you  might  like  the  pattern  better ;  it  makes  beau- 
tiful tea,  and  there 's  a  stand  and  everything ;  you  might 
use  it  for  every  day,  or  else  lay  it  by  for  Lucy  when  she 
goes  to  housekeeping.  I  should  be  so  loath  for  'em  to  buy 
it  at  the  Golden  Lion,"  said  the  poor  woman,  her  heart 
swelling,  and  the  tears  coming,  —  "my  teapot  as  I  bought 
when  I  was  married,  and  to  think  of  its  being  scratched, 
and  set  before  the  travellers  and  folks,  and  my  letters  on 
it,  —  see  here,  E.  D.,  —  and  everybody  to  see  'em." 

-'  Ah,  dear,  dear ! "  said  aunt  Pullet,  shaking  her  head 
with  deep  sadness,  "  it 's  very  bad,  —  to  think  o'  the  family 
initials  going  about  everywhere,  —  it  niver  was  so  before ; 
you  're  a  very  unlucky  sister,  Bessy.  But  what 's  the  use 
o'  buying  the  teapot,  when  there 's  the  linen  and  spoons 
and  everything  to  go,  and  some  of  'em  with  your  full  name, 
—  and  when  it 's  got  that  straight  spout,  too." 

"  As  to  disgrace  o'  the  family,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  "  that 
can't  be  helped  wi'  buying  teapots.  The  disgrace  is,  for 
one  o'  the  family  to  ha'  married  a  man  as  has  brought  her 
to  beggary.  The  disgrace  is,  as  they  're  to  be  sold  up.  We 
can't  hinder  the  country  from  knowing  that." 

Maggie  had  started  up  from,  the   sofa  at   the   allusion   to 


196  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

her  father,  but  Tom  saw  her  action  and  flushed  face  in 
time  to  prevent  her  from  speaking.  "  Be  quiet,  Maggie," 
he  said  authoritatively,  pushing  her  aside.  It  was  a  re- 
markable manifestation  of  self-command  and  practical  judg- 
ment in  a  lad  of  fifteen,  that  when  his  aunt  Glegg  ceased, 
he  began  to  speak  in  a  quiet  and  respectful  manner,  though 
with  a  good  deal  of  trembling  in  his  voice ;  for  his  mother's 
words  had  cut  him  to  the  quick. 

"  Then,  aunt,"  he  said,  looking  straight  at  Mrs.  Glegg,  "  if 
you  think  it 's  a  disgrace  to  the  family  that  we  should  be  sold 
up,  would  n't  it  be  better  to  prevent  it  altogether  ?  And  if 
you  and  my  aunt  Pullet,"  he  continued,  looking  at  the  latter, 
"think  of  leaving  any  money  to  me  and  Maggie,  wouldn't 
it  be  better  to  give  it  now,  and  pay  the  debt  we  're  going  to 
be  sold  up  for,  and  save  my  mother  from  parting  with  her 
furniture  ?  " 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments,  for  every  one,  including 
Maggie,  was  astonished  at  Tom's  sudden  manliness  of  tone. 
Uncle  Glegg  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Ay,  ay,  young  man,  come  now !  You  show  some  notion 
o'  things.  But  there  's  the  interest,  you  must  remember ;  your 
aunts  get  five  per  cent  on  their  money,  and  they  'd  lose  that  if 
they  advanced  it ;  you  have  n't  thought  o'  that." 

"  I  could  work  and  pay  that  every  year,"  said  Tom,  promptly. 
"I'd  do  anything  to  save  my  mother  from  parting  with  her 
things." 

"  Well  done ! "  said  uncle  Glegg,  admiringly.  He  had  been 
drawing  Tom  out,  rather  than  reflecting  on  the  practicability 
of  his  proposal.  But  he  had  produced  the  unfortunate  result 
of  irritating  his  wife. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Glegg!"  said  that  lady,  with  angry  sarcasm. 
"  It 's  pleasant  work  for  you  to  be  giving  my  money  away, 
as  you  've  pretended  to  leave  at  my  own  disposal.  And  my 
money,  as  was  my  own  father's  gift,  and  not  yours,  Mr.  Glegg ; 
and  I  've  saved  it,  and  added  to  it  myself,  and  had  more  to  put 
out  almost  every  year,  and  it 's  to  go  and  be  sunk  in  other  folks' 
furniture,  and  encourage  'em  in  luxury  and  extravagance  as 
they  've  no  means  of  supporting ;  and  I  'm  to  alter  my  will,  or 
have  a  codicil  made,  and  leave  two  or  three  hundred  less  be- 
hind me  when  I  die,  —  me  as  have  allays  done  right  and  been 
careful,  and  the  eldest  o'  the  family ;  and  my  money 's  to  go 
and  be  squandered  on  them  as  have  had  the  same  chance  as 
me,  only  they  've  been  wicked  and  wasteful.  Sister  Pullet, 
you  may  do  as  you  like,  and  you  may  let  your  husband  rob 


THE  DOWNFALL.  197 

you  back  again  o'  the  money  he 's  given  you,  but  that  is  n't  my 
sperrit." 

"  La,  Jane,  how  fiery  you  are  ! "  said  Mrs.  Pullet.  "  I  'm  sure 
you  '11  have  the  blood  in  your  head,  and  have  to  be  cupped.  I  'm 
sorry  for  Bessy  and  her  children,  —  I  'm  sure  I  think  of  'em  o' 
nights  dreadful,  for  I  sleep  very  bad  wi'  this  new  medicine,  — 
but  it 's  no  use  for  me  to  think  o'  doing  anything,  if  you  won't 
meet  me  half-way." 

"  Why,  there 's  this  to  be  considered,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "  It 's 
no  use  to  pay  off  this  debt  and  save  the  furniture,  when  there 's 
all  the  law  debts  behind,  as  'ud  take  every  shilling,  and  more 
than  could  be  made  out  o'  land  and  stock,  for  I  've  made  that  out 
from  Lawyer  Gore.  We  'd  need  save  our  money  to  keep  the 
poor  man  with,  instead  o'  spending  it  on  furniture  as  he  can 
neither  eat  nor  drink.  You  will  be  so  hasty,  Jane,  as  if  I 
did  n't  know  what  was  reasonable." 

"  Then  speak  accordingly,  Mr.  Glegg ! "  said  his  wife, 
with  slow,  loud  emphasis,  bending  her  head  towards  him 
significantly. 

Tom's  countenance  had  fallen  during  this  conversation,  and 
his  lip  quivered;  but  he  was  determined  not  to  give  way. 
He  would  behave  like  a  man.  Maggie,  on  the  contrary,  after 
her  momentary  delight  in  Tom's  speech,  had  relapsed  into  her 
state  of  trembling  indignation.  Her  mother  had  been  stand- 
ing close  by  Tom's  side,  and  had  been  clinging  to  his  arm  ever 
since  he  had  last  spoken ;  Maggie  suddenly  started  up  and 
stood  in  front  of  them,  her  eyes  flashing  like  the  eyes  of  a 
young  lioness. 

"  Why  do  you  come,  then,"  she  burst  out,  "  talking  and  in- 
terfering with  us  and  scolding  us,  if  you  don't  mean  to  do  any- 
thing to  help  my  poor  mother  —  your  own  sister,  —  if  you've 
no  feeling  for  her  when  she 's  in  trouble,  and  won't  part  with 
anything,  though  you  would  never  miss  it,  to  save  her  from 
pain  ?  Keep  away  from  us  then,  and  don't  come  to  find  fault 
with  my  father, — he  was  better  than  any  of  you;  he  was 
kind,  —  he  would  have  helped  you,  if  you  had  been  in  trouble. 
Tom  and  I  don't  ever  want  to  have  any  of  your  money,  if  you 
won't  help  my  mother.  We  'd  rather  not  have  it !  We  '11  do 
without  you." 

Maggie,  having  hurled  her  defiance  at  aunts  and  uncles  in 
this  way,  stood  still,  with  her  large  dark  eyes  glaring  at  them, 
as  if  she  were  ready  to  await  all  consequences. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  was  frightened ;  there  was  something  por- 
tentous in  this  mad  outbreak ;  she  did  not  see  how  life  could 


198  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

go  on  after  it.  Tom  was  vexed ;  it  was  no  use  to  talk  so.  The 
aunts  were  silent  with  surprise  for  some  moments.  At  length, 
in  a  case  of  aberration  such  as  this,  comment  presented  itself 
as  more  expedient  than  any  answer. 

"  You  have  n't  seen  the  end  o'  your  trouble  wi'  that  child. 
Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet ;  "  she  's  beyond  everything  for  bold- 
ness and  unthankfulness.  It 's  dreadful.  I  might  ha'  let  alone 
paying  for  her  schooling,  for  she  's  worse  nor  ever." 

"It's  no  more  than  what  I've  allays  said,"  followed  Mrs. 
Glegg.  "  Other  folks  may  be  surprised,  but  I  'm  not.  1  've 
said  over  and  over  again,  — years  ago  I  've  said,  — '  Mark  my 
words ;  that  child  'ull  come  to  no  good ;  there  is  n't  a  bit  of 
our  family  in  her.'  And  as  for  her  having  so  much  schooling, 
I  never  thought  well  o'  that.  I  'd  my  reasons  when  I  said  1 
would  n't  pay  anything  towards  it." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  "  let 's  waste  no  more  time 
in  talking,  —  let 's  go  to  business.  Tom,  now,  get  the  pen  and 
ink  —  " 

While  Mr.  Glegg  was  speaking,  a  tall  dark  figure  was  seeti 
hurrying  past  the  window. 

"  Why,  there  's  Mrs.  Moss,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver.  "  The  bad 
news  must  ha'  reached  her,  then ; "  and  she  went  out  to  open 
the  door,  Maggie  eagerly  following  her. 

"That's  fortunate,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "She  can  agree  to 
the  list  o'  things  to  be  bought  in.  It 's  but  right  she  should 
do  her  share  when  it 's  her  own  brother." 

Mrs.  Moss  was  in  too  much  agitation  to  resist  Mrs.  Tulliver's 
movement,  as  she  drew  her  into  the  parlour  automatically, 
without  reflecting  that  it  was  hardly  kind  to  take  her  among 
so  many  persons  in  the  first  painful  moment  of  arrival.  The 
tall,  worn,  dark-haired  woman  was  a  strong  contrast  to  the 
Dodson  sisters  as  she  entered  in  her  shabby  dress,  with  her 
shawl  and  bonnet  looking  as  if  they  had  been  hastily  huddled 
on,  and  with  that  entire  absence  of  self-consciousness  which 
belongs  to  keenly  felt  trouble.  Maggie  was  clinging  to  hoi- 
arm  ;  and  Mrs.  Moss  seemed  to  notice  no  one  else  except  Tom, 
whom  she  went  straight  up  to  and  took  by  the  hand. 

"Oh,  my  dear  children,"  she  burst  out,  "you've  no  call  to 
think  well  o'  me ;  I  'm  a  poor  aunt  to  you,  for  I  'm  one  o'  them 
as  take  all  and  give  nothing.  How  :s  my  poor  brother  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Turnbull  thinks  he  '11  get  better,"  said  Maggie.  "  Sit 
down,  aunt  Gritty.  Don't  fret." 

"Oh,  my  sweet  child,  I  feel  torn  i'  two,"  said  Mrs.  Moss, 
allowing  Maggie  to  lead  her  to  the  sofa,  but  still  not  seeming 


THE  DOWNFALL.  199 

to  notice  the  presence  of  the  rest.  "  We  've  three  hundred 
pounds  o'  my  brother's  money,  and  now  he  wants  it,  and  you 
all  want  it,  poor  things  !  —  and  yet  we  must  be  sold  up  to  pay 
it,  and  there  's  my  poor  children,  —  eight  of  'em,  and  the  little 
un  of  all  can't  speak  plain.  And  I  feel  as  if  I  was  a  robber. 
But  I  'm  sure  I  'd  no  thought  as  my  brother  —  " 

The  poor  woman  was  interrupted  by  a  rising  sob. 

"  Three  hundred  pounds  !  oh  dear,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
who,  when  she  had  said  that  her  husband  had  done  "  unknown  " 
things  for  his  sister,  had  not  had  any  particular  sum  in  her 
inind,  and  felt  a  wife's  irritation  at  having  been  kept  in  the 
dark. 

"  What  madness,  to  be  sure ! "  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  A  man 
with  a  family !  He  'd  no  right  to  lend  his  money  i'  that 
way ;  and  without  security,  I  '11  be  bound,  if  the  truth  was 
known." 

Mrs.  Glegg's  voice  had  arrested  Mrs.  Moss's  attention,  and 
looking  up,  she  said,  — 

"  Yes,  there  was  security ;  my  husband  gave  a  note  for  it. 
We  're  not  that  sort  o'  people,  neither  of  us,  as  'ud  rob  my 
brother's  children  ;  and  we  looked  to  paying  back  the  money, 
when  the  times  got  a  bit  better." 

"  Well,  but  now,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  gently,  "  has  n't  your  hus- 
band no  way  o'  raising  this  money  ?  Because  it  'ud  be  a  little 
fortin,  like,  for  these  folks,  if  we  can  do  without  Tulliver's  be- 
ing made  a  bankrupt.  Your  husband  's  got  stock ;  it  is  but 
right  he  should  raise  the  money,  as  it  seems  to  me,  —  not  but 
what  I  'm  sorry  for  you,  Mrs.  Moss." 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  don't  know  what  bad  luck  my  husband  's  had 
with  his  stock.  The  farm 's  suffering  so  as  never  was  for  want 
o'  stock ;  and  we  've  sold  all  the  wheat,  and  we  're  behind  with 
our  rent,  —  not  but  what  we  'd  like  to  do  what 's  right,  and  I  'd 
sit  up  and  work  half  the  night,  if  it  'ud  be  any  good ;  but 
there 's  them  poor  children,  —  four  of  'em  such  little  uns  —  " 

"Don't  cry  so,  aunt;  don't  fret,"  whispered  Maggie,  who 
had  kept  hold  of  Mrs.  Moss's  hand. 

"  Did  Mr.  Tulliver  let  you  have  the  money  all  at  once  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  still  lost  in  the  conception  of  things  which 
kad  been  "  going  on  "  without  her  knowledge. 

"  No ;  at  twice,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  rubbing  her  eyes  and  mak- 
ing an  effort  to  restrain  her  tears.  "  The  last  was  after  my 
bad  illness  four  years  ago,  as  everything  went  wrong,  e,nd 
there  was  a  new  note  made  then.  What  with  illness  and  bad 
luck,  I  Ve  been  nothing  but  cumber  all  my  life." 


200  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Moss,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  with  decision,  "yours 
is  a  very  unlucky  family ;  the  more 's  the  pity  for  my  sister." 

"  I  set  off  in  the  cart  as  soon  as  ever  I  heard  o'  what  had 
happened,"  said  Mrs.  Moss,  looking  at  Mrs.  Tulliver.  "I 
should  never  ha*  stayed  away  all  this  while,  if  you  'd  thought 
well  to  let  me  know.  And  it  is  n't  as  I  'm  thinking  all  about 
ourselves,  and  nothing  about  my  brother,  only  the  money 
was  so  on  my  mind,  I  could  n't  help  speaking  about  it.  And 
my  husband  and  me  desire  to  do  the  right  thing,  sir,"  she 
added,  looking  at  Mr.  Glegg,  "and  we'll  make  shift  and  pav 
the  money,  come  what  will,  if  that 's  all  my  brother 's  got  to 
trust  to.  We  've  been  used  to  trouble,  and  don't  look  for  much 
else.  It's  only  the  thought  o'  my  poor  children  pulls  me  i' 
two." 

"  Why,  there 's  this  to  be  thought  on,  Mrs.  Moss,"  said  Mr. 
Glegg,  "  and  it 's  right  to  warn  you,  —  if  Tulliver 's  made  a 
bankrupt,  and  he 's  got  a  note-of-hand  of  your  husband's  for 
three  hundred  pounds,  you  '11  be  obliged  to  pay  it ;  th'  assign- 
ees 'ull  come  on  you  for  it." 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear ! "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  thinking  of  the 
bankruptcy,  and  not  of  Mrs.  Moss's  concern  in  it.  Poor  Mrs. 
Moss  herself  listened  in  trembling  submission,  while  Maggie 
looked  with  bewildered  distress  at  Tom  to  see  if  he  showed 
any  signs  of  understanding  this  trouble,  and  caring  about  poor 
aunt  Moss.  Tom  was  only  looking  thoughtful,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  tablecloth. 

"And  if  he  isn't  made  bankrupt,"  continued  Mr.  Glegg, 
a  as  I  said  before,  three  hundred  pounds  'ud  be  a  little  f ortin 
for  him,  poor  man.  We  don't  know  but  what  he  may  be  partly 
helpless,  if  he  ever  gets  up  again.  I  'm  very  sorry  if  it  goes 
hard  with  you,  Mrs.  Moss,  but  my  opinion  is,  looking  at  it 
one  way,  it  '11  be  right  for  you  to  raise  the  money ;  and  look- 
ing at  it  th'  other  way,  you'll  be  obliged  to  pay  it.  You  won't 
think  ill  o'  me  for  speaking  the  truth." 

"  Uncle,"  said  Tom,  looking  up  suddenly  from  his  medita- 
tive view  of  the  tablecloth,  "  I  don't  think  it  would  be  right 
for  my  aunt  Moss  to  pay  the  money  if  it  would  be  against 
my  father's  will  for  her  to  pay  it ;  would  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Glegg  looked  surprised  for  a  moment  or  two  before  h^ 
said,  "  Why,  no,  perhaps  not,  Tom ;  but  then  he  'd  ha'  destroyed 
the  note,  you  know.  We  must  look  for  the  note.  What  makes 
you  think  it  'ud  be  against  his  will  ?  " 

"Why,"  said  Tom,  colouring,  but  trying  to  speak  firmly, 
in  spite  of  a  boyish  tremor,  "  I  remember  quite  well,  before  I 


THE   DOWNFALL.  201 

went  to  school  to  Mr.  Stelling,  my  father  said  to  me  one  night, 
when  we  were  sitting  by  the  fire  together,  and  no  one  else  was 
in  the  room  —  " 

Tom  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  went  on. 

"  He  said  something  to  me  about  Maggie,  and  then  he  said, 
( I  've  always  been  good  to  niy  sister,  though  she  married 
against  my  will,  and  I  've  lent  Moss  money ;  but  I  shall  never 
think  of  distressing  him  to  pay  it ;  I  'd  rather  lose  it.  My 
children  must  not  mind  being  the  poorer  for  that.'  And  now 
my  father 's  ill,  and  not  able  to  speak  for  himself,  I  should  n't 
like  anything  to  be  done  contrary  to  what  he  said  to  me." 

"Well,  but  then,  my  boy,"  said  uncle  Glegg,  whose  good 
feeling  led  him  to  enter  into  Tom's  wish,  but  who  could  not 
at  once  shake  off  his  habitual  abhorrence  of  such  recklessness 
as  destroying  securities,  or  alienating  anything  important 
enough  to  make  an  appreciable  difference  in  a  man's  property, 
"  we  should  have  to  make  away  wi'  the  note,  you  know,  if 
we're  to  guard  against  what  may  happen,  supposing  your 
father's  made  bankrupt  —  " 

"Mr.  Glegg,"  interrupted  his  wife,  severely,  "mind  what 
you  're  saying.  You  're  putting  yourself  very  forrard  in  other 
folks's  business.  If  you  speak  rash,  don't  say  it  was  my 
fault." 

"  That 's  such  a  thing  as  I  never  heared  of  before,"  said 
uncle  Pullet,  who  had  been  making  haste  with  his  lozenge  in 
order  to  express  his  amazement,  —  "  making  away  with  a  note  ! 
I  should  think  anybody  could  set  the  constable  on  you  for  it." 

"  Well,  but,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  "  if  the  note  's  worth  all 
that  money,  why  can't  we  pay  it  away,  and  save  my  things 
from  going  away  ?  We  've  no  call  to  meddle  with  your  uncle 
and  aunt  Moss,  Tom,  if  you  think  your  father  'ud  be  angry 
when  he  gets  well." 

Mrs.  Tulli^r  had  not  studied  the  question  of  exchange,  and 
was  straining  .^er  mind  after  original  ideas  on  the  subject. 

"  Pooh,  poc  •  ,  pooh !  you  women  don't  understand  these 
things,"  said  icle  Glegg.  "There's  no  way  o'  making  it 
safe  for  Mr.  am  Mrs.  Moss  but  destroying  the  note." 

"  Then  I  hop  you  '11  help  me  to  do  it,  uncle,"  said  Tom, 
earnestly.  "If  my  father  shouldn't  get  well,  I  should  be 
very  unhappy  to  think  anything  had  been  done  against  his 
will  that  I  could  hinder.  And  I  'm  sure  he  meant  me  to 
remember  what  he  said  that  evening.  I  ought  to  obey  my 
father's  wish  about  his  property." 

Even  Mrs.  Glegg  could   not  withhold   her   approval  from 


202  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Tom's  words ;  she  felt  that  the  Dodson  blood  was  certainly 
speaking  in  him,  though,  if  his  father  had  been  a  Dodson, 
there  would  never  have  been  this  wicked  alienation  of  money, 
Maggie  would  hardly  have  restrained  herself  from  leaping  on 
Tom's  neck,  if  her  aunt  Moss  had  not  prevented  her  by  herself 
rising  and  taking  Tom's  hand,  while  she  said,  with  rather  a 
choked  voice,  — 

"  You  '11  never  be  the  poorer  for  this,  my  dear  boy,  if  there 's 
a  God  above;  and  if  the  money's  wanted  for  your  father, 
Moss  and  me  'ull  pay  it,  the  same  as  if  there  was  ever  such 
security.  We  '11  do  as  we  'd  be  done  by ;  for  if  my  children 
have  got  no  other  luck,  they've  got  an  honest  father  and 
mother." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  who  had  been  meditating  after 
Tom's  words,  "  we  should  n't  be  doing  any  wrong  by  the  cred- 
itors, supposing  your  father  was  bankrupt.  I  've  been  think- 
ing o'  that,  for  I  've  been  a  creditor  myself,  and  seen  no  end  o' 
cheating.  If  he  meant  to  give  your  aunt  the  money  before 
ever  he  got  into  this  sad  work  o'  lawing,  it 's  the  same  as  if 
he  'd  made  away  with  the  note  himself ;  for  he  'd  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  that  much  poorer.  But  there 's  a  deal  o'  things  to 
be  considered,  young  man,"  Mr.  Glegg  added,  looking  admon- 
ishingly  at  Tom,  "when  you  come  to  money  business,  and  you 
may  be  taking  one  man's  dinner  away  to  make  another  man's 
breakfast.  You  don't  understand  that,  I  doubt  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Tom,  decidedly.  "  I  know  if  I  owe  money 
to  one  man,  I  've  no  right  to  give  it  to  another.  But  if  my 
father  had  made  up  his  mind  to  give  my  aunt  the  money  before 
he  was  in  debt,  he  had  a  right  to  do  it." 

"  Well  done,  young  man !  I  did  n't  think  you  'd  been  so 
sharp,"  said  uncle  Glegg,  with  much  candour.  "  But  perhaps 
your  lather  did  make  away  with  the  note.  Let  us  go  and  see 
if  we  can  find  it  in  the  chest." 

"  It 's  in  my  father's  room.  Let  us  go  too,  aunt  Gritty/' 
whispered  Maggie. 


THE  DOWNFALL.  203 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A    VANISHING    GLEAM. 

MR.  TULLIVER,  even  between  the  fits  of  spasmodic  rigidity 
•which  had  recurred  at  intervals  ever  since  he  had  been  found 
fallen  from  his  horse,  was  usually  in  so  apathetic  a  condition 
that  the  exits  and  entrances  into  his  room  were  not  felt  to  be 
of  great  importance.  He  had  lain  so  still,  with  his  eyes  closed, 
all  this  morning,  that  Maggie  told  her  aunt  Moss  she  must  not 
expect  her  father  to  take  any  notice  of  them. 

They  entered  very  quietly,  and  Mrs.  Moss  took  her  seat  near 
the  head  of  the  bed,  while  Maggie  sat  in  her  old  place  on  the 
bed,  and  put  her  hand  on  her  father's  without  causing  any 
change  in  his  face. 

Mr.  Glegg  and  Tom  had  also  entered,  treading  softly,  and 
were  busy  selecting  the  key  of  the  old  oak  chest  from  the  bunch 
which  Tom  had  brought  from  his  father's  bureau.  They  suc- 
ceeded in  opening  the  chest,  —  which  stood  opposite  the  foot 
of  Mr.  Tulliver's  bed,  —  and  propping  the  lid  with  the  iron 
holder,  without  much  noise. 

"  There 's  a  tin  box,"  whispered  Mr.  Glegg  j  "  he  'd  most  like 
put  a  small  thing  like  a  note  in  there.  Lift  it  out,  Tom ;  but 
I  '11  just  lift  up  these  deeds,  —  they're  the  deeds  o'  the  house 
and  mill,  I  suppose,  —  and  see  what  there  is  under  'em." 

Mr.  Glegg  had  lifted  out  the  parchments,  and  had  fortunately 
drawn  back  a  little,  when  the  iron  holder  gave  way,  and  the 
heavy  lid  fell  with  a  loud  bang  that  resounded  over  the  house. 

Perhaps  there  was  something  in  that  sound  more  than  the 
mere  fact  of  the  strong  vibration  that  produced  the  instanta- 
neous effect  on  the  frame  of  the  prostrate  man,  and  for  the  time 
completely  shook  off  the  obstruction  of  paralysis.  The  chest 
had  belonged  to  his  father  and  his  father's  father,  and  it  had 
always  been  rather  a  solemn  business  to  visit  it.  All  long- 
known  objects,  even  a  mere  window  fastening  or  a  particular 
door-latch,  have  sounds  which  are  a  sort  of  recognised  voice  to 
us,  —  a  voice  that  will  thrill  and  awaken,  when  it  has  been  used 
to  touch  deep-lying  fibres.  In  the  same  moment,  when  all  the 
eyes  in  the  room  were  turned  upon  him,  he  started  up  and  looked 
at  the  chest,  the  parchments  in  Mr.  Glegg's  hand,  and  Tom 


204  THE  MILL    ON   THE  FLOSS. 

holding  the  tin  box,  with  a  glance  of  perfect  consciousness 
and  recognition. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  witli  those  deeds  ?  "  he  said,  in 
his  ordinary  tone  of  sharp  questioning  whenever  he  was  irri- 
tated. "  Come  here,  Tom.  What  do  you  do,  going  to  my 
chest  ?  " 

Tom  obeyed,  with  some  trembling ;  it  was  the  first  time  his 
father  had  recognised  him.  But  instead  of  saying  anything 
more  to  him,  his  father  continued  to  look  with  a  growing  dis- 
tinctness of  suspicion  at  Mr.  Glegg  and  the  deeds. 

"  What 's  been  happening,  then  ?  "  he  said  sharply.  "  What 
are  you  meddling  with  my  deeds  for  ?  Is  Wakem  laying  hold 
of  everything  ?  Why  don't  you  tell  me  what  you  've  been 
a-doing  ? "  he  added  impatiently,  as  Mr.  Glegg  advanced  to 
the  foot  of  the  bed  before  speaking. 

"No,  no,  friend  Tulliver,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  in  a  soothing 
tone.  "  Nobody 's  getting  hold  of  anything  as  yet.  We  only 
came  to  look  and  see  what  was  in  the  chest.  You  've  been  ill, 
you  know,  and  we  've  had  to  look  after  things  a  bit.  But 
let 's  hope  you  '11  soon  be  well  enough  to  attend  to  everything 
yourself." 

Mr.  Tulliver  looked  round  him  meditatively,  —  at  Tom,  at 
Mr.  Glegg,  and  at  Maggie ;  then  suddenly  appearing  aware  that 
some  one  was  seated  by  Ids  side  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  he 
turned  sharply  round  and  saw  his  sister. 

"  Eh,  Gritty ! "  he  said,  in  the  half-sad,  affectionate  tone  in 
which  he  had  been  wont  to  speak  to  her.  "  What !  you  're  there, 
are  you  ?  How  could  you  manage  to  leave  the  children  ?  " 

"  Oh,  brother ! "  said  good  Mrs.  Moss,  too  impulsive  to  be 
prudent,  "I'm  thankful  I'm  come  now  to  see  you  yourself 
again  ;  I  thought  you  'd  never  know  us  any  more." 

"  What !  have  I  had  a  stroke  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  anxiously, 
looking  at  Mr.  Glegg. 

"A  fall  from  your  horse  —  shook  you  a  bit,  —  that's  all,  I 
think,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "But  you'll  soon  get  over  it,  let's 
hope." 

Mr.  Tulliver  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  bed-clothes,  and  remained 
silent  for  two  or  three  minutes.  A  new  shadow  came  over  his 
face.  He  looked  up  at  Maggie  first,  and  said  in  a  lower  tone, 
"  You  got  the  letter,  then,  my  wench  ?  " 

"Yes,  father,"  she  said,  kissing  him  with  a  full  heart.  She 
felt  as  if  her  father  were  come  back  to  her  from  the  dead,  and 
her  yearning  to  show  him  how  she  had  always  loved  him  could 
be  fulfilled. 


THE  DOWNFALL.  205 

"  Where  's  your  mother  ?  "  he  said,  so  preoccupied  that  he 
received  the  kiss  as  passively  as  some  quiet  animal  might  have 
received  it. 

"  She  's  down-stairs  with  my  aunts,  father.  "  Shall  I  fetch 
her  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay ;  poor  Bessy ! "  and  his  eyes  turned  towards  Tom 
as  Maggie  left  the  room. 

"  You  '11  have  to  take  care  of  'em  both  if  I  die,  you  know, 
Tom.  You  '11  be  badly  off,  I  doubt.  But  you  must  see  and 
pay  everybody.  And  mind,  — there  's  fifty  pound  o'  Luke's  as  I 
put  into  the  business,  —  lie  gave  it  me  a  bit  at  a  time,  and  he 's 
got  nothing  to  show  for  it.  You  must  pay  him  first  thing." 

Uncle  Grlegg  involuntarily  shook  his  head,  and  looked  more 
concerned  than  ever,  but  Tom  said  firmly,  — 

"  Yes,  father.  And  have  n't  you  a  note  from  my  uncle  Moss 
for  three  hundred  pounds  ?  We  came  to  look  for  that.  What 
do  you  wish  to  be  done  about  it,  father  ?  " 

"  Ah !  I  'm  glad  you  thought  o'  that,  my  lad,"  said  Mr.  Tul- 
liver.  "  I  allays  meant  to  be  easy  about  that  money,  because 
o'  your  aunt.  You  must  n't  mind  losing  the  money,  if  they 
can't  pay  it,  —  and  it 's  like  enough  they  can't.  The  note  's  in 
that  box,  mind !  I  allays  meant  to  be  good  to  you,  Gritty," 
said  Mr.  Tulliver,  turning  to  his  sister;  "but  you  know  you 
aggravated  me  when  you  would  have  Moss." 

At  this  moment  Maggie  re-entered  with  her  mother,  who 
came 'in  much  agitated  by  the  news  that  her  husband  was 
quite  himself  again. 

"  Well,  Bessy,"  he  said,  as  she  kissed  him,  "  you  must  for- 
give me  if  you  're  worse  off  than  you  ever  expected  to  be.  But 
it 's  the  fault  o'  the  law,  —  it 's  none  o'  mine,"  he  added  angrily. 
"  It 's  the  fault  o'  raskills.  Tom,  you  mind  this  :  if  ever  you  've 
got  the  chance,  you  make  Wakem  smart.  If  you  don't,  you  're 
a  good-for-nothing  son.  You  might  horse-whip  him,  but  he  'd 
set  the  law  on  you,  —  the  law 's  made  to  take  care  o'  raskills." 

Mr.  Tulliver  was  getting  excited,  and  an  alarming  flush  was 
on  his  face.  Mr.  Grlegg  wanted  to  say  something  soothing,  but 
he  was  prevented  by  Mr.  Tulliver's  speaking  again  to  his  wife. 
;'  They  '11  make  a  shift  to  pay  everything,  Bessy,"  he  said,  "  and 
yet  leave  you  your  furniture  ;  and  your  sisters  '11  do  something 
for  you  —  and  Tom  '11  grow  up  —  though  what  he  's  to  be  I 
don't  know  —  I  Ve  done  what  I  could  —  I  've  given  him  a 
eddication  —  and  there  's  the  little  wench,  she  '11  get  married 
—  but  it 's  a  poor  tale  —  " 

The  sanative  effect  of  the  strong  vibration  was  exhausted, 


206  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

and  with  the  last  words  the  poor  man  fell  again,  rigid  and 
insensible.  Though  this  was  only  a  recurrence  of  what  had 
happened  before,  it  struck  all  present  as  if  it  had  been  death, 
not  only  from  its  contrast  with  the  completeness  of  the 
revival,  but  because  his  words  had  all  had  reference  to  the 
possibility  that  his  death  was  near.  But  with  poor  Tulliver 
death  was  not  to  be  a  leap ;  it  was  to  be  a  long  descent  under 
thickening  shadows. 

Mr.  Turnbull  was  sent  for;  but  when  he  heard  what  had 
passed,  he  said  this  complete  restoration,  though  only  tempo- 
rary, was  a  hopeful  sign,  proving  that  there  was  no  permanent 
lesion  to  prevent  ultimate  recovery. 

Among  the  threads  of  the  past  which  the  stricken  man  had 
gathered  up,  he  had  omitted  the  bill  of  sale;  the  flash  of 
memory  had  only  lit  up  prominent  ideas,  and  he  sank  into 
forgetfulness  again  with  half  his  humiliation  unlearned. 

But  Tom  was  clear  upon  two  points,  —  that  his  uncle  Moss's 
note  must  be  destroyed ;  and  that  Luke's  money  must  be  paid, 
if  in  no  other  way,  out  of  his  own  and  Maggie's  money  now 
in  the  savings  bank.  There  were  subjects,  you  perceive,  on 
which  Tom  was  much  quicker  than  on  the  niceties  of  classical 
construction,  or  the  relations  of  a  mathematical  demonstration. 


CHAPTER  V. 

TOM   APPLIES    HIS    KNIFE    TO    THE    OYSTER. 

THE  next  day,  at  ten  o'clock,  Tom  was  on  his  way  to  St. 
egg's,  to  see  his  uncle  Deane,  who  was  to  come  home  last 
night,  his  aunt  had  said;  and  Tom  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  his  uncle  Deane  was  the  right  person  to  ask  for  advice 
about  getting  some  employment.  He  was  in  a  great  way  of 
business  ;  he  had  not  the  narrow  notions  of  uncle  Glegg ;  and 
he  had  risen  in  the  world  on  a  scale  of  advancement  which 
accorded  with  Tom's  ambition. 

It  was  a  dark,  chill,  misty  morning,  likely  to  end  in  rain,  — 
one  of  those  mornings  when  even  happy  people  take  refuge 
in  their  hopes.  And  Tom  was  very  unhappy;  he  felt  the 
humiliation  as  well  as  the  prospective  hardships  of  his  lot 
with  all  the  keenness  of  a  proud  nature ;  and  with  all  his 
resolute  dutifulness  towards  his  father  there  mingled  an 


THE  DOWNFALL.  207 

irrepressible  indignation  against  him  which  gave  misfortune 
the  less  endurable  aspect  of  a  wrong.  Since  these  were  the 
consequences  of  going  to  law,  his  father  was  really  blarnable, 
as  his  aunts  and  uncles  had  always  said  he  was ;  and  it  was 
a  significant  indication  of  Tom's  character,  that  though  he 
thought  his  aunts  ought  to  do  something  more  for  his  mother, 
he  felt  nothing  like  Maggie's  violent  resentment  against  them 
for  showing  no  eager  tenderness  and  generosity.  There  were 
no  impulses  in  Tom  that  led  him  to  expect  what  did  not  pre- 
sent itself  to  him  as  a  right  to  be  demanded.  Why  should 
people  give  away  their  money  plentifully  to  those  who  had 
not  taken  care  of  their  own  money  ?  Tom  saw  some  justice 
in  severity ;  and  all  the  more,  because  he  had  confidence  in 
himself  that  he  should  never  deserve  that  just  severity.  It 
was  very  hard  upon  him  that  he  should  be  put  at  this  disad- 
vantage in  life  by  his  father's  want  of  prudence  ;  but  he  was 
not  going  to  complain  and  to  find  fault  with  people  because 
they  did  not  make  everything  easy  for  him.  He  would  ask 
no  one  to  help  him,  more  than  to  give  him  work  and  pay  him 
for  it.  Poor  Tom  was  not  without  his  hopes  to  take  refuge 
in  under  the  chill  damp  imprisonment  of  the  December  fog, 
which  seemed  only  like  a  part  of  his  home  troubles.  At  six- 
teen, the  mind  that  has  the  strongest  affinity  for  fact  cannot 
escape  illusion  and  self-flattery;  and  Tom,  in  sketching  his 
future,  had  no  other  guide  in  arranging  his  facts  than  the 
suggestions  of  his  own  brave  self-reliance.  Both  Mr.  Glegg 
and  Mr.  Deane,  he  knew,  had  been  very  poor  once ;  he  did 
not  want  to  save  money  slowly  and  retire  on  a  moderate  for- 
tune like  his  uncle  Glegg,  but  he  would  be  like  his  uncle 
Deane,  —  get  a  situation  in  some  great  house  of  business  and 
rise  fast.  He  had  scarcely  seen  anything  of  his  uncle  Deane 
for  the  last  three  years,  —  the  two  families  had  been  getting 
wider  apart ;  but  for  this  very  reason  Tom  was  the  more 
hopeful  about  applying  to  him.  His  uncle  Glegg,  he  felt  sure, 
would  never  encourage  any  spirited  project,  but  he  had  a 
vague  imposing  idea  of  the  resources  at  his  uncle  Deane's 
command.  He  had  heard  his  father  say,  long  ago,  how  Deane 
had  made  himself  so  valuable  to  Guest  &  Co.  that  they  were 
glad  enough  to  offer  him  a  share  in  the  business  ;  that  was 
what  Tom  resolved  he  would  do.  It  was  intolerable  to  think 
of  being  poor  and  looked  down  upon  all  one's  life.  He  would 
provide  for  his  mother  and  sister,  and  make  every  one  say 
that  he  was  a  man  of  high  character.  He  leaped  over  the 
years  in  this  way,  and,  in  the  haste  of  strong  purpose  and 


208  THE  MILL    ON   THE  FLOSS, 

strong  desire,  did  not  see  how  they  would  be  made  up  of  slow 
days,  hours,  and  minutes. 

By  the  time  he  had  crossed  the  stone  bridge  over  the  Floss 
and  was  entering  St.Ogg's,  he  was  thinking  that  he  would  buy 
his  father's  mill  and  land  again  when  he  was  rich  enough, 
and  improve  the  house  and  live  there  ;  he  should  prefer  it 
to  any  smarter,  newer  place,  and  he  could  keep  as  many 
horses  and  dogs  as  he  liked. 

Walking  along  the  street  with  a  firm,  rapid  step,  at  this 
point  in  his  reverie  he  was  startled  by  some  one  who  had 
crossed  without  his  notice,  and  who  said  to  him  in  a  rough, 
familiar  voice,  — 

"Why,  Master  Tom,  how's  your  father  this  morning?" 
It  was  a  publican  of  St.  Ogg's,  one  of  his  father's  customers. 

Tom  disliked  being  spoken  to  just  then ;  but  he  said  civilly, 
"  He  's  still  very  ill,  thank  you." 

"  Ay,  it 's  been  a  sore  chance  for  you,  young  man,  has  n't  it, 
—  this  lawsuit  turning  out  against  him?"  said  the  publican, 
with  a  confused,  beery  idea  of  being  good-natured. 

Tom  reddened  and  passed  on  ;  he  would  have  felt  it  like  the 
handling  of  a  bruise,  even  if  there  had  been  the  most  polite 
and  delicate  reference  to  his  position. 

"  That 's  Tulliver's  son,"  said  the  publican  to  a  grocer 
standing  on  the  adjacent  door-step. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  grocer,  "  I  thought  I  knew  his  features. 
He  takes  after  his  mother's  family ;  she  was  a  Doclson.  He  's 
a  fine,  straight  youth  ;  what 's  he  been  brought  up  to  ?  " 

"  Oh !  to  turn  up  his  nose  at  his  father's  customers,  and 
be  a  fine  gentleman,  —  not  much  else,  I  think." 

Tom,  roused  from  his  dream  of  the  future  to  a  thorough 
consciousness  of  the  present,  made  all  the  greater  haste  to 
reach  the  warehouse  offices  of  Guest  &  Co.,  where  he  ex- 
pected to  find  his  uncle  Deane.  But  this  was  Mr.  Deane's 
morning  at  the  bank,  a  clerk  told  him,  with  some  contempt 
for  his  ignorance ;  Mr.  Deane  was  not  to  be  found  in  River 
Street  on  a  Thursday  morning. 

At  the  bank  Tom  was  admitted  into  the  private  room 
where  his  uncle  was,  immediately  after  sending  in  his  name. 
Mr.  Deane  was  auditing  accounts ;  but  he  looked  up  as  Tom 
entered,  and  putting  out  his  hand,  said,  "  Well,  Tom,  nothing 
fresh  the  matter  at  home,  I  hope  ?  How 's  your  father  ?  " 

"Much  the  same,  thank  you,  uncle,"  said  Tom,  feeling 
nervous.  "  But  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  please,  when  you  're 
at  liberty." 


THE  DOWNFALL.  209 

'•'f::i,  down,  sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  relapsing  into  his 
accounts,  in  which  he  and  the  managing-clerk  remained  so 
absorbed  for  the  next  half-hour  that  Tom  began  to  wonder 
whether  he  should  have  to  sit  in  this  way  till  the  bank 
closed,  —  there  seemed  so  little  tendency  towards  a  conclu- 
sion in  the  quiet,  monotonous  procedure  of  these  sleek,  pros- 
perous men  of  business.  Would  his  uncle  give  him  a  place 
in  the  bank  ?  It  would  be  very  dull,  prosy  work,  he  thought, 
writing  there  forever  to  the  loud  ticking  of  a  time-piece.  He 
preferred  some  other  way  of  getting  rich.  But  at  last  there 
was  a  change  ;  his  uncle  took  a  pen  and  wrote  something  with 
a  nourish  at  the  end. 

"  You  '11  just  step  up  to  Torry's  now,  Mr.  Spence,  will 
you  ? "  said  Mr.  Deane,  and  the  clock  suddenly  became  less 
loud  and  deliberate  in  Tom's  ears. 

"  Well,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  when  they  were  alone, 
turning  his  substantial  person  a  little  in  his  chair,  and  tak- 
ing out  his  snuff-box,  "  what 's  the  business,  my  boy  ;  what 's 
the  business  ?  "  Mr.  Deane,  who  had  heard  from  his  wife 
what  had  passed  the  day  before,  thought  Tom  was  come  to 
appeal  to  him  for  some  means  of  averting  the  sale. 

"  I  hope  you  '11  excuse  me  for  troubling  you,  uncle,"  said 
Tom,  colouring,  but  speaking  in  a  tone  which,  though  tremu- 
lous, had  a  certain  proud  independence  in  it ;  "  but  I  thought 
you  were  the  best  person  to  advise  me  what  to  do." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Mr.  Deane,  reserving  his  pinch  of  snuff,  and 
looking  at  Tom  with  new  attention,  "let  us  hear." 

"  I  want  to  get  a  situation,  uncle,  so  that  I  may  earn 
some  money,"  said  Tom,  who  never  fell  into  circumlocution. 

"  A  situation  ?  "  said  Mr.  Deane,  and  then  took  his  pinch 
of  snuff  with  elaborate  justice  to  each  nostril.  Tom  thought 
snuff-taking  a  most  provoking  habit. 

"  Why,  let  me  see,  how  old  are  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Deane, 
as  he  threw  himself  backward  again. 

"  Sixteen ;  I  mean,  I  am  going  in  seventeen,"  said  Tom, 
hoping  his  uncle  noticed  how  much  beard  he  had. 

"  Let  me  see ;  your  father  had  some  notion  of  making  you 
an  engineer,  I  think  ?  " 

"  But  I  don't  think  I  could  get  any  money  at  that  for  a  long 
while,  could  I  ?  " 

"  That 's  true  ;  but  people  don't  get  much  money  at  any- 
thing, my  boy,  when  they  're  only  sixteen.  You  've  had  a 
good  deal  of  schooling,  however ;  I  suppose  you  're  pretty  well 
up  in  accounts,  eh  ?  You  understand  book-keeping  ?  " 

14 


210  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  No,"  said  Tom,  rather  falteringly  "  I  was  in  Practice. 
But  Mr.  Stelling  says  I  write  a  good  hand,  uncle.  That 's  my 
writing,"  added  Tom,  laying  on  the  table  a  copy  of  the  list  he 
had  made  yesterday. 

"  Ah  !  that 's  good,  that 's  good.  But,  you  see,  the  best 
hand  in  the  world  '11  not  get  you  a  better  place  than  a  copy- 
ing-clerk's, if  you  know  nothing  of  book-keeping,  —  nothing  of 
accounts.  And  a  copying-clerk  's  a  cheap  article.  But  what 
have  you  been  learning  at  school,  then  ?  " 

Mr.  Deane  had  not  occupied  himself  with  methods  of  educa- 
tion, and  had  no  precise  conception  of  what  went  forward  in 
expensive  schools. 

"  We  learned  Latin,"  said  Tom,  pausing  a  little  between 
each  item,  as  if  he  were  turning  over  the  books  in  his  school- 
desk  to  assist  his  memory,  —  "  a  good  deal  of  Latin  ;  and  the 
last  year  I  did  Themes,  one  week  in  Latin  and  one  in  Eng- 
lish ;  and  Greek  and  Roman  history ;  and  Euclid ;  and  I 
began  Algebra,  but  I  left  it  oft'  again  ;  and  we  had  one  day 
every  week  for  Arithmetic.  Then  I  used  to  have  drawing- 
lessons  ;  and  there  were  several  other  books  we  either  read 
or  learned  out  of,  —  English  Poetry,  and  Hone  Paulinae,  and 
Blair's  Rhetoric,  the  last  half." 

Mr.  Deane  tapped  his  snuff-box  again  and  screwed  up  his 
mouth ;  he  felt  in  the  position  of  many  estimable  persons 
when  they  had  read  the  New  Tariff,  and  found  how  many 
commodities  were  imported  of  which  they  knew  nothing ; 
like  a  cautious  man  of  business,  he  was  not  going  to  speak 
rashly  of  a  raw  material  in  which  he  had  had  no  experience. 
But  the  presumption  was,  that  if  it  had  been  good  for  any- 
thing, so  successful  a  man  as  himself  would  hardly  have  been 
ignorant  of  it.  About  Latin  he  had  an  opinion,  and  thought 
that  in  case  of  another  war,  since  people  would  no  longer 
wear  hair-powder,  it  would  be  well  to  put  a  tax  upon  Latin, 
as  a  luxury  much  run  upon  by  the  higher  classes,  and  not 
telling  at  all  on  the  ship-owning  department.  But,  for  what 
he  knew,  the  Horae  Paulinae  might  be  something  less  neutral. 
On  the  whole,  this  list  of  acquirements  gave  him  a  sort  of 
repulsion  towards  poor  Tom. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  in  rather  a  cold,  sardonic  tone, 
"  you  've  had  three  years  at  these  things,  —  you  must  be 
pretty  strong  in  'em.  Hadn't  you  better  take  up  some  line 
where  they  '11  come  in  handy  ?  " 

Tom  coloured,  and  burst  out,  with  new  energy,  — 

"  I  'd  rather  not  have  any  employment  of  that  sort,  uncle. 


THE  DOWNFALL.  211 

1  don't  like  Latin  and  those  things.  I  don't  know  what  I 
could  do  with  them  unless  I  went  as  usher  in  a  school ;  and  I 
don't  know  them  well  enough  for  that;  besides,  I  would  as 
soon  carry  a  pair  of  panniers.  I  don't  want  to  be  that  sort  of 
person.  I  should  like  to  enter  into  some  business  where  I 
can  get  on,  —  a  manly  business,  where  I  should  have  to  look 
after  things,  and  get  credit  for  what  I  did.  And  I  shall  want 
to  keep  my  mother  and  sister.'' 

"  Ah,  young  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  with  that  tendency 
to  repress  youthful  hopes  which  stout  and  successful  men  of 
titty  find  one  of  their  easiest  duties,  "  that 's  sooner  said  than 
done,  —  sooner  said  than  done." 

"  But  did  n't  you  get  on  in  that  way,  uncle  ?  "  said  Tom, 
a  little  irritated  that  Mr.  Deaiie  did  not  enter  more  rapidly 
into  his  views.  "  I  mean,  did  n't  you  rise  from  one  place 
to  another  through  your  abilities  and  good  conduct  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  spreading  himself  in  his 
chair  a  little,  and  entering  with  great  readiness  into  a  retro- 
spect of  his  own  career.  "  But  I  '11  tell  you  how  I  got  on.  It 
was  n't  by  getting  astride  a  stick  and  thinking  it  would  turn 
into  a  horse  if  I  sat  on  it  long  enough.  I  kept  my  eyes  and 
ears  open,  sir,  and  I  was  n't  too  fond  of  my  own  back,  and  I 
made  my  master's  interest  my  own.  Why,  with  only  looking 
into  what  went  on  in  the  mill,  I  found  out  how  there  was 
a  waste  of  five  hundred  a-year  that  might  be  hindered.  Why, 
sir,  I  had  n't  more  schooling  to  begin  with  than  a  charity  boy ; 
but  I  saw  pretty  soon  that  I  could  n't  get  on  far  without  mas- 
tering accounts,  and  I  learned  'em  between  working  hours, 
after  I'd  been  unlading.  Look  here."  Mr.  Deane  opened 
a  book  and  pointed  to  the  page.  "I  write  a  good  hand 
enough,  and  I  '11  match  anybody  at  all  sorts  of  reckoning 
by  the  head ;  and  I  got  it  all  by  hard  work,  and  paid  for 
it  out  of  my  own  earnings,  —  often  out  of  my  own  dinner 
and  supper.  And  I  looked  into  the  nature  of  all  the  things 
we  had  to  do  with  in  the  business,  and  picked  up  knowledge 
us  I  went  about  my  work,  and  turned  it  over  in  my  head. 
Why,  I  'm  no  mechanic,  —  I  never  pretended  to  be  —  but  I  've 
thought  of  a  thing  or  two  that  the  mechanics  never  thought  of, 
and  it 's  made  a  fine  difference  in  our  returns.  And  there 
is  n't  an  article  shipped  or  unshipped  at  our  wharf  but  I  know 
the  quality  of  it.  If  I  got  places,  sir,  it  was  because  I  made 
myself  fit  for  'em.  If  you  want  to  slip  into  a  round  hole,  you 
must  make  a  ball  of  yourself ;  that 's  where  it  is." 

Mr.    Deane  tapped  his   box   again.     He   had   been  led  on 


212  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

by  pure  enthusiasm  in  his  subject,  and  had  really  forgotten 
\vhat  bearing  this  retrospective  survey  had  on  his  listener, 
lie  had  found  occasion  for  saying  the  same  thing  more  than 
once  before,  and  was  not  distinctly  aware  that  he  had  not  his 
port-wine  before  him. 

"Well,  uncle,"  said  Tom,  with  a  slight  complaint  in  his 
tone,  "  that 's  what  I  should  like  to  do.  Can't  /  get  on  in  tin* 
same  way  ?  " 

"In  the  same  way?"  said  Mr.  Deane,  eyeing  Tom  with 
quiet  deliberation.  "  There  go  two  or  three  questions  to  that, 
Master  Tom.  That  depends  on  what  sort  of  material  you  arc, 
to  begin  with,  and  whether  you  've  been  put  into  the  right 
mill.  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is.  Your  poor  father  went 
the  wrong  way  to  work  in  giving  you  an  education.  It  was  n't 
my  business,  and  I  did  n't  interfere ;  but  it  is  as  I  thought  it 
would  be.  You  Ve  had  a  sort  of  learning  that 's  all  very  well 
for  a  young  fellow  like  our  Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  who  '11  have 
nothing  to  do  but  sign  cheques  all  his  life,  and  may  as  well 
have  Latin  inside  his  head  as  any  other  sort  of  stuffing." 

"But,  uncle,"  said  Tom,  earnestly,  "I  don't  see  why  the 
Latin  need  hinder  me  from  getting  on  in  business.  I  shall 
soon  forget  it  all ;  it  makes  no  difference  to  me.  I  had  to  do 
my  lessons  at  school,  but  I  always  thought  they  'd  never  be  of 
any  use  to  me  afterwards ;  I  did  n't  care  about  them." 

"Ay,  ay,  that's  all  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Deane;  "but  it 
does  n't  alter  what  I  was  going  to  say.  Your  Latin  and  rigma- 
role may  soon  dry  off  you,  but  you  '11  be  but  a  bare  stick  after 
that.  Besides,  it 's  whitened  your  hands  and  taken  the  rough 
work  out  of  you.  And  what  do  you  know  ?  Why,  you  know 
nothing  about  book-keeping,  to  begin  with,  and  not  so  much 
of  reckoning  as  a  common  shopman.  You  '11  have  to  begin  at 
a  low  round  of  the  ladder,  let  me  tell  you,  if  you  mean  to  get 
on  in  life.  It 's  no  use  forgetting  the  education  your  father  '3 
been  paying  for,  if  you  don't  give  yourself  a  new  un." 

Tom  bit  his  lips  hard ;  he  felt  as  if  the  tears  were  rising, 
and  he  would  rather  die  than  let  them. 

"  You  want  me  to  help  you  to  a  situation,"  Mr.  Deane  went 
on;  "well,  I  've  no  fault  to  find  with  that.  I  'm  willing  to  do 
something  for  you.  But  you  youngsters  nowadays  think 
you  're  to  begin  with  living  well  and  working  easy ;  you  've  no 
notion  of  running  afoot  before  you  get  on  horseback.  Now, 
you  must  remember  Avhat  you  are, — you're  a  lad  of  sixteen, 
trained  to  nothing  particular.  There's  heaps  of  your  sort, 
like  so  many  pebbles,  made  to  fit  in  nowhere.  Well,  you  might 


THE  DOWNFALL.  213 

be  apprenticed  to  some  business,  —  a  chemist's  and  druggist's 
perhaps  ;  your  Latin  might  come  in  a  bit  there  —  " 

Tom  was  going  to  speak,  but  Mr.  Deane  put  up  his  hand 
and  said, — 

"  Stop !  hear  what  I  've  got  to  say.  You  don't  want  to  be  a 
'prentice,  —  I  know,  I  know,  —  you  want  to  make  more  haste, 
and  you  don't  want  to  stand  behind  a  counter.  But  if  you  're 
a  copying-clerk,  you  '11  have  to  stand  behind  a  desk,  and  stare 
at  your  ink  and  paper  all  day ;  there  is  n't  much  out-look  there, 
and  you  won't  be  much  wiser  at  the  end  of  the  year  than  at 
the  beginning.  The  world  is  n't  made  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper, 
and  if  you  're  to  get  on  in  the  world,  young  man,  you  must 
know  what  the  world 's  made  of.  Now  the  best  chance  for 
you  'ud  be  to  have  a  place  on  a  wharf,  or  in  a  warehouse, 
where  you  'd  learn  the  smell  of  things,  but  you  would  n't 
like  that,  I  '11  be  bound ;  you  'd  have  to  stand  cold  and  wet, 
and  be  shouldered  about  by  rough  fellows.  You  're  too  fine  a 
gentleman  for  that." 

Mr.  Deane  paused  and  looked  hard  at  Tom,  who  certainly 
felt  some  inward  struggle  before  he  could  reply. 

"  I  would  rather  do  what  will  be  best  for  me  in  the  end, 
sir ;  I  would  put  up  with  what  was  disagreeable." 

"  That 's  well,  if  you  can  carry  it  out.  But  you  must  remem- 
ber it  is  n't  only  laying  hold  of  a  rope,  you  must  go  on  pull- 
ing. It's  the  mistake  you  lads  make  that  have  got  nothing 
either  in  your  brains  or  your  pocket,  to  think  you've  got  a 
better  start  in  the  world  if  you  stick  yourselves  in  a  place 
where  you  can  keep  your  coats  clean,  and  have  the  shop- 
wenches  take  you  for  fine  gentlemen.  That  was  n't  the  way  / 
started,  young  man;  when  I  was  sixteen,  my  jacket  smelt  of 
tar,  and  I  wasn't  afraid  of  handling  cheeses.  That's  the 
reason  I  can  wear  good  broadcloth  now,  and  have  my  legs 
under  the  same  table  with  the  heads  of  the  best  firms  in  St. 
Ogg's." 

Uncle  Deane  tapped  his  box,  and  seemed  to  expand  a  little 
under  his  waistcoat  and  gold  chain,  as  he  squared  his  shoulders 
in  the  chair. 

"  Is  there  any  place  at  liberty  that  you  know  of  now,  uncle, 
that  I  should  do  for  ?  I  should  like  to  set  to  work  at  once," 
said  Tom,  with  a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"  Stop  a  bit,  stop  a  bit ;  we  must  n't  be  in  too  great  a  hurry. 
You  must  bear  in  mind,  if  I  put  you  in  a  place  you  're  a  bit 
young  for,  because  you  happen  to  be  my  nephew,  I  shall  be 
responsible  for  you.  And  there 's  no  better  reason,  you  know, 


214  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS, 

than  your  being  my  nephew ;  because  it  remains  to  be  seen 
whether  you  're  good  for  anything." 

"  I  hope  I  should  never  do  you  any  discredit,  uncle,"  said 
Tom,  hurt,  as  all  boys  are  at  the  statement  of  the  unpleasant 
truth  that  people  feel  no  ground  for  trusting  them.  "  I  care 
about  my  own  credit  too  much  for  that." 

"Well  done,  Tom,  well  done!  That's  the  right  spirit,  and 
I  never  refuse  to  help  anybody  if  they've  a  mind  to  do  them- 
selves justice.  There's  a  young  man  of  two-and-twenty  I  'TO 
got  my  eye  on  now.  I  shall  do  what  I  can  for  that  young 
man;  he's  got  some  pith  in  him.  But  then,  you  see,  h'  's 
made  good  use  of  his  time,  —  a  first-rate  calculator,  —  can  tell 
you  the  cubic  contents  of  anything  in  no  time,  and  put  me  up 
the  other  day  to  a  new  market  for  Swedish  bark ;  he 's  uncom- 
monly knowing  in  manufactures,  that  young  fellow." 

"  I  'd  better  set  about  learning  book-keeping,  had  n't  I, 
uncle  ? "  said  Tom,  anxious  to  prove  his  readiness  to  exert 
himself. 

"Yes,  yes,  you  can't  do  amiss  there.  But  —  Ah,  Speinv, 
you  're  back  again.  Well,  Tom,  there 's  nothing  more  to  be 
said  just  now,  I  think,  and  I  must  go  to  business  again.  Good- 
bye. Remember  me  to  your  mother." 

Mr.  Deane  put  out  his  hand,  with  an  air  of  friendly  dis- 
missal, and  Tom  had  not  courage  to  ask  another  question, 
especially  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Spence.  So  he  went  out 
again  into  the  cold  damp  air.  He  had  to  call  at  his  uncle 
Glegg's  about  the  money  in  the  Savings  Bank,  and  by  the  time 
he  set  out  again  the  mist  had  thickened,  and  he  could  not  see 
very  far  before  him ;  but  going  along  River  Street  again,  he 
was  startled,  when  he  was  within  two  yards  of  the  projecting 
side  of  a  shop-window,  by  the  words  "  Dorlcote  Mill "  in  large 
letters  on  a  hand-bill,  placed  as  if  on  purpose  to  stare  at  him. 
It  was  the  catalogue  of  the  sale  to  take  place  the  next  week ; 
it  was  a  reason  for  hurrying  faster  out  of  the  town. 

Poor  Tom  formed  no  visions  of  the  distant  future  as  he 
made  his  way  homeward ;  lie  only  felt  that  the  present  was 
vi  TV  hard.  It  seemed  a  wrong  towards  him  that  his  uncle 
Deane  had  no  confidence  in  him,  —  did  not  see  at  once  that  he 
should  acquit  himself  well,  which  Tom  himself  was  as  certain 
of  as  of  the  daylight.  Apparently  he,  Tom  Tulliver,  was 
likely  to  be  held  of  small  account  in  the  world ;  and  for  the 
first  time  he  felt  a  sinking  of  heart  under  the  sense  that  he 
really  was  very  ignorant,  and  could  do  very  little.  Who  was 
that  enviable  young  man  that  could  tell  the  cubic  contents  of 


THE  DOWNFALL.  215 

things  in  no  time,  and  make  suggestions  about  Swedish  bark  ? 
Swedish  bark!  Tom  had  been  used  to  be  so  entirely  satisfied 
with  himself,  in  spite  of  his  breaking  down  in  a  demonstration, 
and  construing  nunc  illas  promite  vires  as  "  now  promise  'those 
men ;  "  but  now  he  suddenly  felt  at  a  disadvantage,  because  he 
knew  less  than  some  one  else  knew.  There  must  be  a  world 
of  things  connected  with  that  Swedish  bark,  which,  if  he  only 
knew  them,  might  have  helped  him  to  get  on.  It  would  have 
been  much  easier  to  make  a  figure  with  a  spirited  horse  and 
a  new  saddle. 

Two  hours  ago,  as  Tom  was  walking  to  St.  Ogg's,  he  saw  the 
distant  future  before  him  as  he  might  have  seen  a  tempting 
stretch  of  smooth  sandy  beach  beyond  a  belt  of  flinty  shingles ; 
he  was  on  the  grassy  bank  then,  and  thought  the  shingles  might 
soon  be  passed.  But  now  his  feet  were  on  the  sharp  stones ; 
the  belt  of  shingles  had  widened,  and  the  stretch  of  sand  had 
dwindled  into  narrowness. 

"  What  did  my  uncle  Deane  say,  Tom  ?  "  said  Maggie,  put< 
ting  her  arm  through  Tom's  as  he  was  warming  himself  rather 
drearily  by  the  kitchen  fire.  "  Did  he  say  he  would  give  you 
a  situation  ?  " 

"  No,  he  did  n't  say  that.  He  did  n't  quite  promise  me  any- 
thing ;  he  seemed  to  think  I  could  n't  have  a  very  good  situa- 
tion. I  'm  too  young." 

"  But  did  n't  he  speak  kindly,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Kindly  ?  Pooh !  what 's  the  use  of  talking  about  that  ? 
I  would  n't  care  about  his  speaking  kindly,  if  I  could  get  a 
situation.  But  it 's  such  a  nuisance  and  bother ;  I  've  been 
at  school  all  this  while  learning  Latin  and  things,  —  not  a  bit  of 
good  to  me,  —  and  now  my  uncle  says  I  must  set  about  learning 
book-keeping  and  calculation,  and  those  things.  He  seems  to 
make  out  I  'm  good  for  nothing." 

Tom's  mouth  twitched  with  a  bitter  expression  as  he  looked 
at  the  fire. 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity  we  have  n't  got  Dominie  Sampson ! "  said 
Maggie,  who  could  n't  help  mingling  some  gaiety  with  their 
sadness.  "  If  he  had  taught  me  book-keeping  by  double  entry 
and  after  the  Italian  method,  as  he  did  Lucy  Bertram,  I  could 
teach  you,  Tom." 

"  You  teach !  Yes,  I  daresay.  That 's  always  the  tone  you 
take,"  said  Tom. 

"Dear  Tom,  I  was  only  joking,"  said  Maggie,  putting  her 
cheek  against  his  coat-sleeve. 

"  But  it's  always  the  same,  Maggie/'  said  Tom,  with  the  little 


216  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

frown  he  put  on  when  he  was  about  to  be  justifiably  severe. 
"  You  're  always  setting  yourself  up  above  me  and  every  one 
else,  and  I  've  wanted  to  tell  you  about  it  several  times.  You 
ought  not  to  have  spoken  as  you  did  to  my  uncles  and  aunts ; 
you  should  leave  it  to  me  to  take  care  of  my  mother  and  you, 
and  not  put  yourself  forward.  You  think  you  kno\v  better 
than  any  one,  but  you're  almost  always  wrong.  1  can  judge 
much  better  than  you  can." 

Poor  Tom !  he  had  just  come  from  being  lectured  and  made 
to  feel  his  inferiority ;  the  reaction  of  his  strong,  self-asserting 
nature  must  take  place  somehow ;  and  here  was  a  case  in  which 
he  could  justly  show  himself  dominant.  Maggie's  cheek  flushed 
and  her  lip  quivered  with  conflicting  resentment  and  affection, 
and  a  certain  awe  as  well  as  admiration  of  Tom's  firmer  and 
more  effective  character.  She  did  not  answer  immediately ; 
very  angry  words  rose  to  her  lips,  but  they  were  driven  back 
again,  and  she  said  at  last,  — 

"  You  often  think  I  'm  conceited,  Tom,  when  I  don't  mean 
what  I  say  at  all  in  that  way.  I  don't  mean  to  put  myself 
above  you ;  I  know  you  behaved  better  than  I  did  yesterday. 
But  you  are  always  so  harsh  to  me,  Tom." 

With  the  last  words  the  resentment  was  rising  again. 

"  No,  I  'm  not  harsh,"  said  Tom,  with  severe  decision.  "  I  'm 
always  kind  to  you,  and  so  I  shall  be ;  I  shall  always  take  care 
of  you.  But  you  must  mind  what  I  say." 

Their  mother  came  in  now,  and  Maggie  rushed  away,  that 
her  burst  of  tears,  which  she  felt  must  come,  might  not 
happen  till  she  was  safe  up-stairs.  They  were  very  bitter 
tears  ;  everybody  in  the  world  seemed  so  hard  and  unkind  to 
Maggie ;  there  was  no  indulgence,  no  fondness,  such  as  she 
imagined  when  she  fashioned  the  world  afresh  in  her  own 
thoughts.  In  books  there  were  people  who  were  always 
agreeable  or  tender,  and  delighted  to  do  things  that  made 
one  happy,  and  who  did  not  show  their  kindness  by  finding 
fault.  The  world  outside  the  books  was  not  a  happy  one, 
Maggie  felt ;  it  seemed  to  be  a  world  where  people  behaved 
the  best  to  those  they  did  not  pretend  to  love,  and  that  did  not 
belong  to  them.  And  if  life  had  no  love  in  it,  what  else  was 
there  for  Maggie  ?  Nothing  but  poverty  and  the  companion- 
ship of  her  mother's  narrow  griefs,  perhaps  of  her  father's 
heart-cutting  childish  dependence.  There  is  no  hopelessness 
so  sad  as  that  of  early  youth,  when  the  soul  is  made  up  of 
wants,  and  has  no  long  memories,  no  superadded  life  in  the 
life  of  others ;  though  we  who  look  on  think  lightly  of  such 


THE  DOWNFALL.  217 

premature  despair,  as  if  our  vision  of  the  future  lightened 
the  blind  sufferer's  present. 

.Maggie,  in  her  brown  frock,  with  her  eyes  reddened  and  her 
heavy  hair  pushed  back,  looking  from  the  bed  where  her  father 
lay,  to  the  dull  walls  of  this  sad  chamber  which  was  the  centre 
of  her  world,  was  a  creature  full  of  eager,  passionate  longings 
for  all  that  was  beautiful  and  glad  ;  thirsty  for  all  knowledge ; 
with  an  ear  straining  after  dreamy  music  that  died  away  and 
would  not  come  near  to  her ;  with  a  blind,  unconscious  yearn- 
ing for  something  that  would  link  together  the  wonderful  im- 
pressions of  this  mysterious  life,  and  give  her  soul  a  sense  of 
home  in  it. 

No  wonder,  when  there  is  this  contrast  between  the  outward 
and  the  inward,  that  painful  collisions  come  of  it. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

TENDING    TO    REFUTE    THE    POPULAR    PREJUDICE    AGAINST    THE 
PRESENT    OF    A    POCKET-KNIFE. 

IN  that  dark  time  of  December,  the  sale  of  the  household 
furniture  lasted  beyond  the  middle  of  the  second  day.  Mr. 
Tulliver,  who  had  begun,  in  his  intervals  of  consciousness,  to 
manifest  an  irritability  which  often  appeared  to  have  as  a  direct 
effect  the  recurrence  of  spasmodic  rigidity  and  insensibility, 
had  lain  in  this  living  death  throughout  the  critical  hours  when 
the  noise  of  the  sale  came  nearest  to  his  chamber.  Mr.  Turn- 
bull  had  decided  that  it  would  be  a  less  risk  to  let  him  remain 
where  he  was  than  to  move  him  to  Luke's  cottage,  —  a  plan 
which  the  good  Luke  had  proposed  to  Mrs.  Tulliver,  thinking 
it  would  be  very  bad  if  the  master  were  "  to  waken  up  "  at  the 
noise  of  the  sale ;  and  the  wife  and  children  had  sat  impris- 
oned in  the  silent  chamber,  watching  the  large  prostrate  figure 
on  the  bed,  and  trembling  lest  the  blank  face  should  suddenly 
show  some  response  to  the  sounds  which  fell  on  their  own  ears 
with  such  obstinate,  painful  repetition. 

But  it  was  over  at  last,  that  time  of  importunate  certainty 
and  eye-straining  suspense.  The  sharp  sound  of  a  voice,  al- 
most as  metallic  as  the  rap  that  followed  it,  had  ceased ;  the 
tramping  of  footsteps  on  the  gravel  had  died  out.  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver's  blond  face  seemed  aged  ten  years  by  the  last  thirty 


218  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

hours  ;  the  poor  woman's  mind  had  been  busy  divining  when 
her  favourite  things  were  being  knocked  down  by  the  terrible 
hammer ;  her  heart  had  been  fluttering  at  the  thought  that 
first  one  thing  and  then  another  had  gone  to  be  identified 
as  hers  in  the  hateful  publicity  of  the  Golden  Lion ;  and  all 
the  while  she  had  to  sit  and  make  no  sign  of  this  inward 
agitation.  Such  things  bring  lines  in  well-rounded  faces, 
and  broaden  the  streaks  of  white  among  the  hairs  that  once 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  dipped  in  pure  sunshine.  Already, 
at  three  o'clock,  Kezia,  the  good-hearted,  bad-tempered  house- 
maid, who  regarded  all  people  that  came  to  the  sale  as  her 
personal  enemies,  the  dirt  on  whose  feet  was  of  a  peculiarly 
vile  quality,  had  begun  to  scrub  and  swill  with  an  energy 
much  assisted  by  a  continual  low  muttering  against  "folks 
as  came  to  buy  up  other  folks's  things,"  and  made  light  of 
"scrazing"  the  tops  of  mahogany  tables  over  which  better 
folks  than  themselves  had  had  to  —  suffer  a  waste  of  tissue 
through  evaporation.  She  was  not  scrubbing  indiscriminately, 
for  there  would  be  further  dirt  of  the  same  atrocious  kind 
made  by  people  who  had  still  to  fetch  away  their  purchases ; 
but  she  was  bent  on  bringing  the  parlour,  where  that  "  pipe- 
smoking  pig,"  the  bailiff,  had  sat,  to  such  an  appearance  of 
scant  comfort  as  could  be  given  to  it  by  cleanliness  and  the 
few  articles  of  furniture  bought  in  for  the  family.  Her  mis- 
tress and  the  young  folks  should  have  their  tea  in  it  that 
night,  Kezia  was  determined. 

It  was  between  five  and  six  o'clock,  near  the  usual  tea-time, 
when  she  came  up-stairs  and  said  that  Master  Tom  was 
wanted.  The  person  who  wanted  him  was  in  the  kitchen, 
and  in  the  first  moments,  by  the  imperfect  fire  and  candle 
light,  Tom  had  not  even  an  indefinite  sense  of  any  acquaint- 
ance with  the  rather  broad-set  but  active  figure,  perhaps  two 
years  older  than  himself,  that  looked  at  him  with  a  pair  of 
blue  eyes  set  in  a  disc  of  freckles,  and  pulled  some  curly  red 
locks  with  a  strong  intention  of  respect.  A  low-crowned  oil- 
skin-covered hat,  and  a  certain  shiny  deposit  of  dirt  on  tlu- 
rest  of  the  costume,  as  of  tablets  prepared  for  writing  upon, 
suggested  a  calling  that  had  to  do  with  boats ;  but  this  did 
not  help  Tom's  memory. 

"Sarvant,  Mister  Tom,"  said  he  of  the  red  locks,  with 
a  smile  which  seemed  to  break  through  a  self-imposed  air  of 
melancholy.  "  You  don't  know  me  again,  I  doubt,"  he  went 
on,  as  Tom  continued  to  look  at  him  inquiringly ;  "  but  I  'd 
like  to  talk  to  you  by  yourself  a  bit,  please." 


THE   DOWNFALL.  219 

"  There 's  a  fire  i'  the  parlour,  Master  Tom,"  said  Kezia, 
who  objected  to  leaving  the  kitchen  in  the  crisis  of  toasting. 

"  Come  this  way,  then,"  said  Tom,  wondering  if  this  young 
fellow  belonged  to  Guest  &  Co.'s  Wharf,  for  his  imagination 
ran  continually  towards  that  particular  spot ;  and  uncle  Deane 
might  any  time  be  sending  for  him  to  say  that  there  was  a 
situation  at  liberty. 

The  bright  fire  in  the  parlour  was  the  only  light  that 
showed  the  few  chairs,  the  bureau,  the  carpetless  floor,  and 
the  one  table  —  no,  not  the  one  table ;  there  was  a  second 
table,  in  a  corner,  with  a  large  Bible  and  a  few  other  books 
upon  it.  It  was  this  new  strange  bareness  that  Tom  felt  first, 
before  he  thought  of  looking  again  at  the  face  which  was  also 
lit  up  by  the  fire,  and  which  stole  a  half-shy,  questioning 
glance  at  him  as  the  entirely  strange  voice  said,  — 

"  Why !  you  don't  remember  Bob,  then,  as  you  gen  the 
pocket-knife  to,  Mr.  Tom?" 

The  rough-handled  pocket-knife  was  taken  out  in  the  same 
moment,  and  the  largest  blade  opened  by  way  of  irresistible 
demonstration. 

"  What !  Bob  Jakin  ? "  said  Tom,  not  with  any  cordial 
delight,  for  he  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  that  early  intimacy 
symbolised  by  the  pocket-knife,  and  was  not  at  all  sure  that 
Bob's  motives  for  recalling  it  were  entirely  admirable. 

"Ay,  ay,  Bob  Jakin,  if  Jakin  it  must  be,  'cause  there's 
so  many  Bobs  as  you  went  arter  the  squerrils  with,  that  day 
as  I  plumped  right  down  from  the  bough,  and  bruised  my 
shins  a  good  un  —  but  I  got  the  squerril  tight  for  all  that,  an' 
a  scratter  it  was.  An'  this  littlish  blade  's  broke,  you  see, 
but  I  wouldn't  hev  a  new  un  put  in,  'cause  they  might  be 
cheatin'  me  an'  givin'  me  another  knife  istid,  for  there  is  n't 
such  a  blade  i'  the  country,  —  it 's  got  used  to  my  hand,  like. 
An'  there  was  niver  nobody  else  gen  me  nothin'  but  what  I 
got  by  my  own  sharpness,  only  you,  Mr.  Tom ;  if  it  was  n't 
Bill  Fawks  as  gen  me  the  terrier  pup  istid  o'  drowndin'  it, 
an'  I  had  to  jaw  him  a  good  un  afore  he  'd  give  it  me." 

Bob  spoke  with  a  sharp  and  rather  treble  volubility,  and 
got  through  his  long  speech  with  surprising  despatch,  giving 
the  blade  of  his  knife  an  affectionate  rub  on  his  sleeve  when 
he  had  finished. 

"  Well,  Bob,"  said  Tom,  with  a  slight  air  of  patronage,  the 
foregoing  reminiscences  having  disposed  him  to  be  as  friendly 
as  was  becoming,  though  there  was  no  part  of  his  acquaint- 
ance with  Bob  that  he  remembered  better  than  the  cause 


220  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

of  their  parting  quarrel ;    "  is   there  anything   I  can  do   for 
you  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  Mr  Tom,"  answered  Bob,  shutting  up  his  knife 
with  a  click  and  returning  it  to  his  pocket,  where  he  seemed 
to  be  feeling  for  something  else.  "  I  should  n't  ha'  come 
back  upon  you  now  ye  're  i'  trouble,  an'  folks  say  as  the 
master,  as  I  used  to  frighten  the  birds  for,  an'  he  flogged  me 
a  bit  for  fun  when  he  catched  me  eatin'  the  turnip,  as  t!n-y 
say  he  '11  niver  lift  up  his  yead  no  more,  —  1  should  n't  ha' 
come  now  to  ax  you  to  gi'  me  another  knife  'cause  you  gen 
me  one  afore,  if  a  chap  gives  me  one  black  eye,  that's  enough 
for  me ;  I  sha'n't  ax  him  for  another  afore  I  sarve  him  out ; 
an'  a  good  turn's  worth  as  much  as  a  bad  un,  anyhow. 
I  shall  niver  grow  down'ards  again,  Mr.  Tom,  an'  you  war 
the  little  chap  as  I  liked  the  best  when  /  war  a  little  cli;i|>, 
for  all  you  leathered  me,  and  wouldn't  look  at  me  again. 
There  's  Dick  Brumby,  there,  I  could  leather  him  as  iiiudi 
as  I'd  a  mind;  but  Ion 2  you  get  tired  o' leatherin' a  chap 
when  you  ran  nivrr  make  him  see  what  you  want  him  to  shy  at. 
I'n  seen  chaps  as  "ad  stand  starin'  at  a  bough  till  their  cys 
shot  out,  afore  they'd  see  as  a  bird's  tail  war  n't  a  leaf.  It,  's 
poor  work  goin'  \vi'  such  raff.  But  you  war  allays  a  rare  un 
at  shying,  Mr.  Tom,  an'  I  could  trusten  to  you  for  droppin' 
down  wi'  your  stick  in  the  nick  o1  time  at  a  runnin'  rat,  or 
a  stoat,  or  that,  when  I  war  a-beatin'  the  bushes." 

Bob  had  drawn  out  a  dirty  canvas  bag,  and  would  perhaps 
not  have  paused  just  then  if  Maggie  had  not  entered  the 
room  and  darted  a  look  of  surprise  and  curiosity  at  him, 
whereupon  he  pulled  his  red  locks  again  with  due  respect. 
But  the  next  moment  the  sense  of  the  altered  room  came  upon 
Maggie  with  a  force  that  overpowered  the  thought  of  Bob's 
presence.  Her  eyes  had  immediately  glanced  from  him  to  the 
place  where  the  bookcase  had  hung ;  there  was  nothing  now 
but  the  oblong  unfaded  space  on  the  wall,  and  below  it  the 
small  table  with  the  Bible  and  the  few  other  books. 

"  Oh,  Tom  ! "  she  burst  out,  clasping  her  hands,  "  where  are 
the  books  ?  I  thought  my  uncle  Glegg  said  he  would  buy 
them.  Did  n't  he  ?  Are  those  all  they  've  left  us  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Tom,  with  a  sort  of  desperate  indiffer- 
ence. "  Why  should  they  buy  many  books  when  they  bought 
so  little  furniture  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears,  as 
she  rushed  up  to  the  table  to  see  what  books  had  been  rescued. 
"  Our  dear  old  Pilgrim's  Progress  that  you  coloured  with  youi 


THE  DOWNFALL.  221 

little  paints ;  and  that  picture  of  Pilgrim  with  a  mantle  on, 
looking  just  like  a  turtle  —  oh  dear ! "  Maggie  went  on,  half 
sobbing  as  she  turned  over  the  few  books.  "  I  thought  we 
should  never  part  with  that  while  we  lived;  everything  is 
going  away  from  vis ;  the  end  of  our  lives  will  have  nothing 
in  it  like  the  beginning  ! " 

Maggie  turned  away  from  the  table  and  threw  herself  into 
a  chair,  with  the  big  tears  ready  to  roll  down  her  cheeks, 
quite  blinded  to  the  presence  of  Bob,  who  was  looking  at  her 
with  the  pursuant  gaze  of  an  intelligent  dumb  animal,  with 
perceptions  more  perfect  than  his  comprehension. 

"Well,  Bob,"  said  Tom,  feeling  that  the  subject  of  the 
books  was  unseasonable,  "  I  suppose  you  just  came  to  see  me 
because  we  're  in  trouble  ?  That  was  very  good-natured  of  you." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  how  it  is,  Master  Tom,"  said  Bob,  beginning 
to  untwist  his.  canvas  bag.  "  You  see,  I  'n  been  with  a  barge 
this  two  'ear ;  that 's  how  I  'n  been  gettin'  my  livin',  —  if  it 
was  n't  when  I  was  tentin'  the  furnace,  between  whiles,  at 
Torry's  mill.  But  a  fortni't  ago  I  'd  a  rare  bit  o'  luck,  —  I 
allays  thought  I  was  a  lucky  chap,  for  I  niver  set  a  trap  but 
what  I  catched  something ;  but  this  was  n't  a  trap,  it  was  a 
fire  i'  Torry's  mill,  an'  I  doused  it,  else  it  'ud  ha'  set  th'  oil 
alight,  an'  the  genelman  gen  me  ten  suvreigns  ;  he  gen  me 
'em  himself  last  week.  An'  he  said  first,  I  was  a  sperrited 
chap,  —  but  I  knowed  that  afore,  —  but  then  he  outs  wi'  the 
ten  suvreigns,  an'  that  war  summat  new.  Here  they  are,  all 
but  one ! "  Here  Bob  emptied  the  canvas  bag  on  the  table. 
"  An'  when  I  'd  got  'em,  my  head  was  all  of  a  boil  like  a 
kettle  o'  broth,  thinkin'  what  sort  o'  life  I  should  take  to, 
for  there  war  a  many  trades  I  'd  thought  on ;  for  as  for  the 
barge,  I  'm  clean  tired  out  wi't,  for  it  pulls  the  days  out  till 
they  're  as  long  as  pigs'  chitterlings.  An'  I  thought  first  I  'd 
ha'  ferrets  an'  dogs,  an'  be  a  rat-catcher ;  an'  then  I  thought 
as  I  should  like  a  bigger  way  o'  life,  as  I  did  n't  know  so  well ; 
for  I  'n  seen  to  the  bottom  o'  rat-catching ;  an'  I  thought,  an' 
thoiight,  till  at  last  I  settled  I  'd  be  a  packman,  —  for  they  're 
knowin'  fellers,  the  packmen  are, — an'  I'd  carry  the  lightest 
things  I  could  i'  my  pack ;  an'  there  'd  be  a  use  for  a  feller's 
tongue,  as  is  no  use  neither  wi'  rats  nor  barges.  An'  I  should 
go  about  the  country  far  an'  wide,  an'  come  round  the  women 
wi'  my  tongue,  an'  get  my  dinner  hot  at  the  public,  —  lors  !  it 
'ud  be  a  lovely  life  ! " 

Bob  paused,  and  then  said,  with  defiant  decision,  as  if  reso- 
lutely turning  his  back  on  that  paradisaic  picture,  — 


222  THE   MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  But  I  don't  mind  about  it,  not  a  chip  !  An'  I  'n  changed 
one  o'  the  suvreigns  to  buy  my  mother  a  goose  for  dinner,  an' 
i  'n  bought  a  blue  plush  wescoat,  an'  a  sealskin  cap,  —  for  if  1 
meant  to  be  a  packman,  I  'd  do  it  respectable.  But  I  don't 
mind  about  it,  not  a  chip !  My  yead  is  n't  a  turnip,  an'  I 
shall  p'r'aps  have  a  chance  o'  dousing  another  fire  afore  long. 
I  'm  a  lucky  chap.  So  I  '11  thank  you  to  take  the  nine  suvreigns, 
Mr.  Tom,  and  set  yoursen  up  with  'em  somehow,  if  it's  true 
as  the  master 's  broke.  They  may  n't  go  fur  enough,  but  the}-  '11 
help." 

Tom  was  touched  keenly  enough  to  forget  his  pride  and 
suspicion. 

"  You  're  a  very  kind  fellow,  Bob,"  he  said,  colouring,  with 
that  little  diffident  tremor  in  his  voice  which  gave  a  certain 
charm  even  to  Tom's  pride  and  severity,  "  and  1  sha'n't  forget 
you  again,  though  I  did  n't  know  you  this  evening.  But  I  can't 
take  the  nine  sovereigns ;  I  should  be  taking  your  little  for- 
tune from  you,  and  they  wouldn't  do  me  much  good  either." 

'•  Would  n't  they,  Mr.  Tom  ?  "  said  Bob,  regretfully.  "Now 
don't  say  so  'cause  you  think  I  want  'em.  I  aren't  a  poor 
chap.  My  mother  gets  a  good  penn'orth  wi'  picking  feathers 
an'  things  ;  an'  if  she  eats  nothin'  but  bread-an'-water,  it  runs 
to  fat.  An'  I  'm  such  a  lucky  chap ;  an'  I  doubt  you  are  n't 
quite  so  lucky,  Mr.  Tom,  —  th'  old  master  is  n't,  anyhow,  —  an' 
so  you  might  take  a  slice  o'  my  luck,  an'  no  harm  done.  Lors ! 
I  found  a  leg  o'  pork  i'  the  river  one  day ;  it  had  tumbled  out 
o'  one  o'  them  round-sterned  Dutchmen,  I  '11  be  bound.  Come, 
think  better  on  it,  Mr.  Tom,  for  old  'quinetance'  sake,  else  I 
shall  think  you  bear  me  a  grudge." 

Bob  pushed  the  sovereigns  forward,  but  before  Tom  could 
speak,  Maggie,  clasping  her  hands,  and  looking  penitently  at 
Bob,  said, — 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry,  Bob ;  I  never  thought  you  were  so  good. 
Why,  I  think  you're  the  kindest  person  in  the  world!" 

Bob  had  not  been  aware  of  the  injurious  opinion  for  which 
Maggie  was  performing  an  inward  act  of  penitence,  but  he 
smiled  with  pleasure  at  this  handsome  eulogy,  —  especially 
from  a  young  lass  who,  as  he  informed  his  mother  that  even- 
ing, had  "  such  uncommon  eyes,  they  looked  somehow  as  they 
made  him  feel  nohow." 

"No,  indeed,  Bob,  I  can't  take  them,"  said  Tom;  "but  don't 
think  I  feel  your  kindness  less  because  I  say  no.  I  don't 
want  to  take  anything  from  anybody,  but  to  work  my  own 
way.  Aud  those  sovereigns  would  n't  help  me  imu.'h  —  they 


THE  DOWNFALL.  223 

wouldn't,  really  —  if  I  were  to  take  them.  Let  me  shake 
hands  with  you  instead." 

Tom  put  out  his  pink  palm,  and  Bob  was  not  slow  to  place 
his  hard,  grimy  hand  within  it. 

"  Let  me  put  the  sovereigns  in  the  bag  again,"  said  Maggie ; 
"  and  you  '11  come  and  see  us  when  you  've  bought  your  pack, 
Bob." 

"  It 's  like  as  if  I  'd  come  out  o'  make  believe,  o'  purpose  to 
show  'em  you,"  said  Bob,  with  an  air  of  discontent,  as  Maggie 
gave  him  the  bag  again,  "  a-taking  'em  back  i'  this  way.  I  am 
a  bit  of  a  Do,  you  know ;  but  it  is  n't  that  sort  o'  Do,  —  it 's  on'y 
when  a  feller 's  a  big  rogue,  or  a  big  flat,  I  like  to  let  him  in  a 
bit,  that 's  all." 

"  Xow,  don't  you  be  up  to  any  tricks,  Bob,"  said  Tom,  "  else 
you'll  get  transported  some  day." 

"  Xo,  no ;  not  me,  Mr.  Tom,"  said  Bob,  with  an  air  of  cheer- 
ful confidence.  "  There 's  no  law  again'  flea-bites.  If  I  was  n't 
to  take  a  fool  in  now  and  then,  he  'd  niver  get  any  wiser.  But, 
lors !  hev  a  suvreign  to  buy  you  and  Miss  summat,  on'y  for  a 
token  —  just  to  match  my  pocket-knife." 

While  Bob  was  speaking  he  laid  down  the  sovereign,  and 
resolutely  twisted  up  his  bag  again.  Tom  pushed  back  the 
gold,  and  said,  "  N"o,  indeed,  Bob ;  thank  you  heartily,  but  I 
can't  take  it."  And  Maggie,  taking  it  between  her  fingers, 
held  it  up  to  Bob  and  said,  more  persuasively,  — 

"  Not  now,  but  perhaps  another  time.  If  ever  Tom  or  my 
father  wants  help  that  you  can  give,  we'll  let  you  know; 
ivon't  we,  Tom  ?  That 's  what  you  would  like,  —  to  have  us 
always  depend  on  you  as  a  friend  that  we  can  go  to,  —  is  n't  it, 
Bob  ?  " 

"Yes,  Miss,  and  thank  you,"  said  Bob,  reluctantly  taking 
bhe  money;  "that's  what  I'd  like,  anything  as  you  like. 
An'  I  wish  you  good-bye,  Miss,  and  good-luck,  Mr:  Tom,  and 
thank  you  for  shaking  hands  wi'  me,  though  you  wouldn't 
take  the  money." 

Kezia's  entrance,  with  very  black  looks,  to  inquire  if  she 
should  n't  bring  in  the  tea  now,  or  whether  the  toast  was  to 
get  hardened  to  a  brick,  was  a  seasonable  check  on  Bob's  flux 
of  words,  and  hastened  his  parting  bow. 


224  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HOW   A    HEN    TAKES    TO    STRATAGEM. 

THE  days  passed,  and  Mr.  Tulliver  showed,  at  least  to 
the  eyes  of  the  medical  man,  stronger  and  stronger  symp- 
toms of  a  gradual  return  to  his  normal  condition ;  the  par- 
alytic obstruction  was,  little  by  little,  losing  its  tenacity, 
and  the  mind  was  rising  from  under  it  with  fitful  struggles, 
like  a  living  creature  making  its  way  from  under  a  great 
snowdrift,  that  slides  and  slides  again,  and  shuts  up  the 
newly  made  opening. 

Time  would  have  seemed  to  creep  to  the  watchers  by 
the  bed,  if  it  had  only  been  measured  by  the  doubtful,  dis- 
tant hope  which  kept  count  of  the  moments  within  the 
chamber  ;  but  it  was  measured  for  them  by  a  fast-approach- 
ing dread  which  made  the  nights  come  too  (juickly.  While 
Mr.  Tulliver  was  slowly  becoming  himself  again,  his  lot 
was  hastening  towards  its  moment  of  most  palpable  change. 
The  taxing-masters  had  done  their  work  like  any  respectable 
gunsmith  conscientiously  preparing  the  musket,  that,  duly 
pointed  by  a  brave  arm,  will  spoil  a  life  or  two.  Alloca- 
turs,  filing  of  bills  in  Chancery,  decrees  of  sale,  are  legal 
chainshot  or  bomb-shells  that  can  never  hit  a  solitary  mark, 
but  must  fall  with  widespread  shattering.  So  deeply  inherent 
is  it  in  this  life  of  ours  that  men  have  to  suffer  for  each  other's 
sins,  so  inevitably  diffusive  is  human  suffering,  that  even  jus- 
tice makes  its  victims,  and  we  can  conceive  no  retribution  that 
does  not  spread  beyond  its  mark  in  pulsations  of  unmerited 
pain. 

By  the  beginning  of  the  second  week  in  January  the  bills 
were  out  advertising  the  sale,  under  a  decree  of  Cham 
of  Mr.  Tulliver's  farming  and  other  stock,  to  be  followed  by  a 
sale  of  the  mill  and  land,  held  in  the  proper  after-dinner  hour 
at  the  Golden  Lion.  The  miller  himself,  unaware  of  the  lapse 
of  time,  fancied  himself  still  in  that  first  stage  of  his  mis- 
fortunes when  expedients  might  be  thought  of ;  and  often 
in  his  conscious  hours  talked  in  a  feeble,  disjointed  manner 
of  plans  he  would  carry  out  when  he  "got  well."  The  wife 
and  children  were  not  without  hope  of  an  issue  that  would  at 


THE  DOWNFALL.  225 

least  save  Mr.  Tulliver  from  leaving  the  old  spot,  and  seeking 
an  entirely  strange  life.  For  uncle  Deane  had  been  induced 
to  interest  himself  in  this  stage  of  the  business.  It  would  not, 
he  acknowledged,  be  a  bad  speculation  for  Guest  &  Co.  to  buy 
Dorlcote  Mill,  and  carry  on  the  business,  which  was  a  good 
one,  and  might  be  increased  by  the  addition  of  steam,  power ; 
in  which  case  Tulliver  might  be  retained  as  manager.  Still, 
Mr.  Deane  would  say  nothing  decided  about  the  matter ;  the 
fact  that  Wakem  held  the  mortgage  on  the  land  might  put 
it  into  his  head  to  bid  for  the  whole  estate,  and  further,  to 
outbid  the  cautious  firm  of  Guest  &  Co.,  who  did  not  carry  on 
business  on  sentimental  grounds.  Mr.  Deane  was  obliged  to 
tell  Mrs.  Tulliver  something  to  that  effect,  when  he  rode  over 
to  the  mill  to  inspect  the  books  in  company  with  Mrs.  Glegg ; 
for  she  had  observed  that  "  if  Guest  &  Co.  would  only  think 
about  it,  Mr.  Tulliver's  father  and  grandfather  had  been  carry- 
ing on  Dorlcote  Mill  long  before  the  oil-mill  of  that  firm  had 
been  so  much  as  thought  of."  Mr.  Deane,  in  reply,  doubted 
whether  that  was  precisely  the  relation  between  the  two  mills 
which  would  determine  their  value  as  investments.  As  for 
uncle  Glegg,  the  thing  lay  quite  beyond  his  imagination ;  the 
good-natured  man  felt  sincere  pity  for  the  Tulliver  family, 
but  his  money  was  all  locked  up  in  excellent  mortgages, 
and  he  could  run  no  risk ;  that  would  be  unfair  to  his  own 
relatives  ;  but  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  Tulliver  should 
have  some  new  flannel  waistcoats  which  he  had  himself  re- 
nounced in  favour  of  a  more  elastic  commodity,  and  that  he 
would  buy  Mrs.  Tulliver  a  pound  of  tea  now  and  then ; 
it  would  be  a  journey  which  his  benevolence  delighted  in 
beforehand,  to  carry  the  tea,  and  see  her  pleasure  on  being 
assured  it  was  the  best  black. 

Still,  it  was  clear  that  Mr.  Deane  was  kindly  disposed 
towards  the  Tullivers.  One  day  he  had  brought  Lucy,  who 
was  come  home  for  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  the  little 
blond  angel-head  had  pressed  itself  against  Maggie's  darker 
cheek  with  many  kisses  and  some  tears.  These  fair  slim 
daughters  keep  up  a  tender  spot  in  the  heart  of  many  a 
respectable  partner  in  a  respectable  firm,  and  perhaps  Lucy's 
anxious,  pitying  questions  about  her  poor  cousins  helped  to 
make  uncle  Deane  more  prompt  in  finding  Tom  a  temporary 
place  in  the  warehouse,  and  in  putting  him  in  the  way  of 
getting  evening  lessons  in  book-keeping  and  calculation. 

That  might  have  cheered  the  lad  and  fed  his  hopes  a  little, 
if  there  had  not  come  at  the  same  time  the  much-dreaded 

16 


226  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

blow  of  finding  that  his  father  must  be  a  bankrupt,  after  all ; 
at  least,  the  creditors  must  be  asked  to  take  less  than  their 
due,  which  to  Tom's  untechnical  mind  was  the  same  thing 
as  bankruptcy.  His  father  must  not  only  be  said  to  have 
"  lost  his  property,"  but  to  have  "  failed,"  —  the  word  that 
carried  the  worst  obloquy  to  Tom's  mind.  For  when  the 
defendant's  claim  for  costs  had  been  satisfied,  there  would 
remain  the  friendly  bill  of  Mr.  Gore,  and  the  deficiency  at 
the  bank,  as  well  as  the  other  debts,  which  would  make 
the  assets  shrink  into  unequivocal  disproportion ;  "  not  more 
than  ten  or  twelve  shillings  in  the  pound,"  predicted  Mr. 
Deane,  in  a  decided  tone,  tightening  his  lips  ;  and  the  words 
fell  on  Tom  like  a  scalding  liquid,  leaving  a  continual  smart. 

He  was  sadly  in  want  of  something  to  keep  up  his  spirits 
a  little  in  the  unpleasant  newness  of  his  position,  —  suddenly 
transported  from  the  easy  carpeted  ennui  of  study-hours  at 
Mr.  Stelling's,  and  the  busy  idleness  of  castle-building  in 
a  "  last  half "  at  school,  to  the  companionship  of  sacks  and 
hides,  and  bawling  men  thundering  down  heavy  weights  at 
his  elbow.  The  first  step  towards  getting  on  in  the  world 
was  a  chill,  dusty,  noisy  affair,  and  implied  going  without 
one's  tea  in  order  to  stay  in  St.  Ogg's  and  have  an  evening 
lesson  from  a  one-armed  elderly  clerk,  in  a  room  smelling 
strongly  of  bad  tobacco.  Tom's  young  pink-and-white  face 
had  its  colours  very  much  deadened  by  the  time  he  took  off  his 
hat  at  home,  and  sat  down  with  keen  hunger  to  his  supper. 
No  wonder  he  was  a  little  cross  if  his  mother  or  Maggie  spoke 
to  him. 

But  all  this  while  Mrs.  Tiilliver  was  brooding  over  a  scheme 
by  which  she,  and  no  one  else,  would  avert  the  result  most 
to  be  dreaded,  and  prevent  Wakem  from  entertaining  the  pur- 
pose of  bidding  for  the  mill.  Imagine  a  truly  respectable  and 
amiable  hen,  by  some  portentous  anomaly,  taking  to  reflection 
and  inventing  combinations  by  which  she  might  prevail  on 
Hodge  not  to  wring  her  neck,  or  send  her  and  her  chicks  to 
market ;  the  result  could  hardly  be  other  than  much  cackling 
and  fluttering.  Mrs.  Tulliver,  seeing  that  everything  had 
gone  wrong,  had  begun  to  think  that  she  had  been  too  passive 
in  life ;  and  that,  if  she  had  applied  her  mind  to  business,  and 
taken  a  strong  resolution  now  and  then,  it  would  have  been  all 
the  better  for  her  and  her  family.  Nobody,  it  appeared,  had 
thought  of  going  to  speak  to  Wakem  on  this  business  of  the 
mill ;  and  yet,  Mrs.  Tulliver  reflected,  it  wcmld  have  been  quite 
the  shortest  method  of  securing  the  right  end.  It  would  have 


THE  DOWNFALL.  227 

been  of  no  use,  to  be  sure,  for  Mr.  Tulliver  to  go,  —  even  if  he 
had  been  able  and  willing,  —  for  he  had  been  "  going  to  law 
against  Wakem "  and  abusing  him  for  the  last  ten  years ; 
Wakem  was  always  likely  to  have  a  spite  against  him.  And 
now  that  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  her  hus- 
band was  very  much  in  the  wrong  to  bring  her  into  this  trouble, 
she  was  inclined  to  think  that  his  opinion  of  Wakem.  was  wrong 
too.  To  be  sure,  Wakem  had  "  put  the  bailies  in  the  house, 
and  sold  them  up ; "  but  she  supposed  he  did  that  to  please  the 
man  that  lent  Mr.  Tulliver  the  money,  for  a  lawyer  had  more 
folks  to  please  than  one,  and  he  was  n't  likely  to  put  Mr.  Tulli- 
ver, who  had  gone  to  law  with  him,  above  everybody  else  in 
the  world.  The  attorney  might  be  a  very  reasonable  man; 
why  not  ?  He  had  married  a  Miss  Clint,  and  at  the  time  Mrs. 
Tulliver  had  heard  of  that  marriage,  the  summer  when  she 
wore  her  blue  satin  spencer,  and  had  not  yet  any  thoughts  of 
Mr.  Tulliver,  she  knew  no  harm  of  Wakem.  And  certainly 
towards  herself,  whom  he  knew  to  have  been  a  Miss  Dodson, 
it  was  out  of  all  possibility  that  he  could  entertain  anything 
but  good-will,  when  it  was  once  brought  home  to  his  observa- 
tion that  she,  for  her  part,  had  never  wanted  to  go  to  law,  and 
indeed  was  at  present  disposed  to  take  Mr.  Wakem's  view  of 
all  subjects  rather  than  her  husband's.  In  fact,  if  that  attor- 
ney saw  a  respectable  matron  like  herself  disposed  "  to  give 
him  good  words,"  why  should  n't  he  listen  to  her  represen- 
tations ?  For  she  would  put  the  matter  clearly  before  him, 
which  had  never  been  done  yet.  And  he  would  never  go  and 
bid  for  the  mill  on  purpose  to  spite  her,  an  innocent  woman, 
who  thought  it  likely  enough  that  she  had  danced  with  him  in 
their  youth  at  Squire  Darleigh's,  for  at  those  big  dances  she 
had  often  and  often  danced  with  young  men  whose  names  she 
had  forgotten. 

Mrs.  Tulliver  hid  these  reasonings  in  her  own  bosom;  for 
when  she  had  thrown  out  a  hint  to  Mr.  Deane  and  Mr.  Glegg 
that  she  would  n't  mind  going  to  speak  to  Wakem  herself,  they 
had  said,  "  No,  no,  no,"  and  "  Pooh,  pooh,"  and  "  Let  Wakem 
alone,"  in  the  tone  of  men  who  were  not  likely  to  give  a  candid 
attention  to  a  more  definite  exposition  of  her  project ;  still 
less  dared  she  mention  the  plan  to  Tom  and  Maggie,  for  "the 
children  were  always  so  against  everything  their  mother  said ; " 
and  Tom,  she  observed,  was  almost  as  much  set  against  Wakem 
as  his  father  was.  But  this  unusual  concentration  of  thought 
naturally  gave  Mrs.  Tulliver  an  unusual  power  of  device  and 
determination ;  and  a  day  or  two  before  the  sale,  to  be  held  at 


228  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

the  Golden  Lion,  when  there  was  110  longer  any  time  to  be  lost, 
she  carried  out  her  plan  by  a  stratagem.  There  were  pickles 
in  question,  a  large  stock  of  pickles  and  ketchup  which  Mrs. 
Tulliver  possessed,  and  which  Mr.  Hyudmarsh,  the  grocer, 
would  certainly  purchase  if  she  could  transact  the  business  in 
a  personal  interview,  so  she  would  walk  with  Tom  to  St.  Ogg's 
that  morning;  and  when  Tom  urged  that  she  might  let  the 
pickles  be  at  present,  —  he  didn't  like  her  to  go  about  just 
yet,  —  she  appeared  so  hurt  at  this  conduct  in  her  son,  contra- 
dicting her  about  pickles  which  she  had  made  after  the  family 
receipts  inherited  from  his  own  grandmother,  who  had  died 
when  his  mother  was  a  little  girl,  that  he  gave  way,  and  they 
walked  together  until  she  turned  towards  Danish  Street,  where 
Mr.  Hyndmarsh  retailed  his  grocery,  not  far  from  the  offices 
of  Mr.  Wakem. 

That  gentleman  was  not  yet  come  to  his  office;  would  Mr:-. 
Tulliver  sit  down  by  the  fire  in  his  private  room  and  wait  for 
him  ?  She  had  not  long  to  wait  before  the  punctual  attorney 
entered,  knitting  his  brow  with  an  examining  glance  at  the 
stout  blond  woman  who  rose,  curtsying  deferentially,  —  a 
tallish  man,  with  an  aquiline  nose  and  abundant  iron- 
hair.  You  have  never  seen  Mr.  Wakem  before,  and  are  possi- 
bly wondering  whether  he  was  really  as  eminent  a  rascal,  and 
as  crafty,  bitter  an  enemy  of  honest  humanity  in  general,  and 
of  Mr.  Tulliver  in  particular,  as  he  is  represented  to  be  in  that 
eidolon  or  portrait  of  him  which  we  have  seen  to  exist  in  the 
miller's  mind. 

It  is  clear  that  the  irascible  miller  was  a  man  to  interpret 
any  chance-shot  that  grazed  him  as  an  attempt  on  his  own 
life,  and  was  liable  to  entanglements  in  this  pu/./ling  world, 
\\hich,  due  consideration  had  to  his  own  infallibility,  required 
the  hypothesis  of  a  very  active  diabolical  agency  to  explain 
them.  It  is  still  possible  to  believe  that  the  attorney  was  not 
more  guilty  towards  him  than  an  ingenious  machine,  which 
performs  its  work  with  much  regularity,  is  guilty  towards  the 
rash  man  who,  venturing  too  near  it,  is  caught  up  by  some 
fly-wheel  or  other,  and  suddenly  converted  into  unexpected 
mince-meat. 

But  it  is  really  impossible  to  decide  this  question  by  a 
glance  at  his  person ;  the  lines  and  lights  of  the  human  coun- 
t.» -nance  are  like  other  symbols,  —  not  always  easy  to  read 
without  a  key.  On  an  a  priori  view  of  Wakem's  aquiline  nose, 
which  offended  Mr.  Tulliver,  there  was  not  more  msi-a'itv  than 
in  the  shape  of  his  stiff  shirt-collar,  though  this  too,  along  with 


THE  DOWNFALL.  229 

his  nose,  might  have  become  fraught  with  damnatory  meaning 
when  once  the  rascality  was  ascertained. 

•'Mrs.  Tulliver,  I  think?  "  said  Mr.  Wakem. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  Miss  Elizabeth  Dodsou  as  was." 

"Pray  be  seated.     You  have  some  business  with  me  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  beginning  to  feel  alarmed 
at  her  own  courage,  now  she  was  really  in  presence  of  the  for- 
midable man,  and  reflecting  that  she  had  not  settled  with  her- 
self how  she  should  begin.  Mr.  Wakem  felt  in  his  waistcoat 
pockets,  and  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  she  began  at  last,  —  "I  hope,  sir,  you  're  not 
a-thinking  as  /  bear  you  any  ill-will  because  o'  my  husband's 
losing  his  lawsuit,  and  the  bailies  being  put  in,  and  the  linen 
being  sold,  —  oh  dear  !  —  for  I  was  n't  brought  up  in  that  way. 
I  'm  sure  you  remember  my  father,  sir,  for  he  was  close  friends 
with  Squire  Darleigh,  and  we  allays  went  to  the  dances  there, 
the  Miss  Dodsons,  —  nobody  could  be  more  looked  on,  —  and 
justly,  for  there  was  four  of  us,  and  you  're  quite  aware  as  Mrs. 
G-legg  and  Mrs.  Deane  are  my  sisters.  And  as  for  going  to  law 
and  losing  money,  and  having  sales  before  you  're  dead,  I  never 
saw  anything  o'  that  before  I  was  married,  nor  for  a  long  while 
after.  And  I  'in  not  to  be  answerable  for  my  bad  luck  i'  mar- 
rying out  o'  my  own  family  into  one  where  the  goings-on  was 
different.  And  as  for  being  drawn  in  t'  abuse  you  as  other  folks 
abuse  you,  sir,  that  I  niver  was,  and  nobody  can  say  it  of  me." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  shook  her  head  a  little,  and  looked  at  the  hem 
of  her  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  I  've  no  doubt  of  what  you  say,  Mrs.  Tulliver,"  said  Mr. 
Wakem,  with  cold  politeness.  "  But  you  have  some  question 
to  ask  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  yes.  But  that 's  what  I  Ve  said  to  myself,  —  I  've 
said  you  'd  had  some  nat'ral  feeling ;  and  as  for  my  husband, 
as  has  n't  been  himself  for  this  two  months,  I  'in  not  a-def end- 
ing him,  in  no  way,  for  being  so  hot  about  th'  erigation,  —  not 
but  what  there 's  worse  men,  for  he  never  wronged  nobody  of 
a  shilling  nor  a  penny,  not  willingly ;  and  as  for  his  fieriness 
and  lawing,  what  could  I  do  ?  And  him  struck  as  if  it  was 
with  death  when  he  got  the  letter  as  said  you  'd  the  hold  upo' 
the  land.  But  I  can't  believe  but  what  you'll  behave  as  a 
gentleman." 

"  What  does  all  this  mean,  Mrs.  Tulliver  ?  "  said  Mr.  Wakem, 
rather  sharply.  "  What  do  you  want  to  ask  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  if  you  '11  be  so  good,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  starting 
a  little,  and  speaking  more  hurriedly,  —  "  if  you  '11  be  so  good 


230  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

not  to  buy  the  mill  an'  the  land,  —  the  land  would  n't  so 
much  matter,  only  my  husband  'ull  be  like  mad  at  your 
having  it." 

Something  like  a  new  thought  flashed  across  Mr.  Wakem's 
face  as  he  said,  "  Who  told  you  I  meant  to  buy  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  it 's  none  o'  my  inventing,  and  I  should  never  ha' 
thought  of  it ;  for  my  husband,  as  ought  to  know  about  the 
law,  he  allays  used  to  say  as  lawyers  had  never  no  call  to  buy 
anything,  —  either  lands  or  houses,  —  for  they  allays  got  'em 
into  their  hands  other  ways.  An'  I  should  think  that  'ud  be 
the  way  with  you,  sir ;  and  I  niver  said  as  you  'd  be  the  man  to 
do  contrairy  to  that." 

"  Ah,  well,  who  was  it  that  did  say  so  ?  "  said  Wakem,  open- 
ing his  desk,  and  moving  things  about,  with  the  accompani- 
ment of  an  almost  inaudible  whistle. 

"  Why,  sir,  it  was  Mr.  Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane,  as  have  all  the 
management ;  and  Mr.  Deane  thinks  as  Guest  &  Co.  'ud  buy 
the  mill  and  let  Mr.  Tulliver  work  it  for  'em,  if  you  did  n't 
bid  for  it  and  raise  the  price.  And  it  'ud  be  such  a  thing  for 
my  husband  to  stay  where  he  is,  if  he  could  get  his  living ; 
for  it  was  his  father's  before  him,  the  mill  was,  and  his  grand- 
father built  it,  though  I  was  n't  fond  o'  the  noise  of  it,  when 
first  I  was  married,  for  there  was  no  mills  in  our  family,  —  not 
the  Dodsons',  —  and  if  I  'd  known  as  the  mills  had  so  much  to 
do  with  the  law,  it  would  n't  have  been  me  as  'ud  have  been 
the  first  Dodson  to  marry  one ;  but  I  went  into  it  blindfold, 
that  I  did,  erigation  and  everything." 

"What!  Guest  &  Co.  would  keep  the  mill  in  their  own 
hands,  I  suppose,  and  pay  your  husband  wages  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear,  sir,  it 's  hard  to  think  of,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver, a  little  tear  making  its  way,  "as  my  husband  should  t;ike 
wage.  But  it  'ud  look  more  like  what  used  to  bo,  to  stay  at  the 
mill  than  to  go  anywhere  else;  and  if  you'll  only  think  —  if 
you  was  to  bid  for  the  mill  and  buy  it,  my  husband  might  be 
truck  worse  than  he  was  before,  and  niver  get  better  again  as 
lie  's  getting  now." 

"Well,  biit  if  I  bought  the  mill,  and  allowed  your  husband 
to  act  as  my  manager  in  the  same  way,  how  then  ?  "  said  M  i . 
Wakem. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  doubt  he  could  niver  be  got  to  do  it,  not  if  the 
very  mill  stood  still  to  beg  and  pray  of  him.  For  your  name  's 
like  poison  to  him,  it 's  so  as  never  was ;  and  he  looks  upon  it 
as  you  've  been  the  ruin  of  him  all  along,  ever  since  you  set 
the  law  on  him  about  the  road  through  the  meadow,  —  that 's 


THE  DOWNFALL.  231 

eight  year  ago,  and  he 's  been  going  on  ever  since  —  as  I  've 
allays  told  him  he  was  wrong  —  " 

"  He 's  a  pig-headed,  fonl-mouthed  fool ! "  burst  out  Mr. 
Wakem,  forgetting  himself. 

"  Oh  dear,  sir ! "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  frightened  at  a  result 
so  different  from  the  one  she  had  fixed  her  mind  on ;  "I 
wouldn't  wish  to  contradict  you,  but  it's  like  enough  he's 
changed  his  mind  with  this  illness,  —  he 's  forgot  a  many  things 
he  used  to  talk  about.  And  you  would  n't  like  to  have  a  corpse 
on  your  mind,  ii  he  was  to  die ;  and  they  do  say  as  it 's  allays 
unlucky  when  Dorlcote  Mill  changes  hands,  and  the  water 
might  all  run  away,  and  then  —  not  as  I'm  wishing  you  any 
ill-luck,  sir,  for  I  forgot  to  tell  you  as  I  remember  your  wed- 
ding as  if  it  was  yesterday ;  Mrs.  Wakem  was  a  Miss  Clint, 
1  know  that ;  and  my  boy,  as  there  is  n't  a  nicer,  handsomer, 
straighter  boy  nowhere,  went  to  school  with  your  son  — " 

3Lr.  Wakem  rose,  opened  the  door,  and  called  to  one  of  his 
clerks. 

"  You  must  excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,  Mrs.  Tulliver  ;  I 
have  business  that  must  be  attended  to ;  and  I  think  there  is 
nothing  more  necessary  to  be  said." 

"  But  if  you  would  bear  it  in  mind,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
rising,  "  and  not  run  against  me  and  my  children ;  and  I  'in  not 
denying  Mr.  Tulliver 's  been  in  the  wrong,  but  he 's  been  pun- 
ished enough,  and  there 's  worse  men,  for  it 's  been  giving  to 
other  folks  has  been  his  fault.  He 's  done  nobody  any  harm 
but  himself  and  his  family, — the  more's  the  pity,  —  and  I  go 
and  look  at  the  bare  shelves  every  day,  and  think  where  all 
my  things  used  to  stand." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  '11  bear  it  in  mind,"  said  Mr.  Wakem,  hastily, 
looking  towards  the  open  door. 

"  And  if  you  'd  please  not  to  say  as  I  've  been  to  speak  to 
you,  for  my  son  'ud  be  very  angry  with  me  for  demeaning  my- 
self, I  know  he  woiild,  and  I  've  trouble  enough  without  bsing 
scolded  by  my  children." 

Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver's  voice  trembled  a  little,  and  she  could 
make  no  answer  to  the  attorney's  "  good  morning,"  but  curt- 
sied and  walked  out  in  silence. 

"  Which  day  is  it  that  Dorlcote  Mill  is  to  be  sold  ?  Where 's 
the  bill?"  said  Mr.  Wakem  to  his  clerk  when  they  were 
alone. 

"Next  Friday  is  the  day,  — Friday  at  six  o'clock." 

"  Oh,  just  run  to  Winship's  the  auctioneer,  and  see  if  he  's  at 
home.  I  have  some  business  for  him ;  ask  him  to  come  up." 


232  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Although,  when  Mr.  Wakera  entered  his  office  that  morn 
ing,  he  had  had  no  intention  of  purchasing  Dorlcote  Mill,  his 
mind  was  already  made  up.  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  suggested  to 
him  several  determining  motives,  and  his  mental  glance  was 
very  rapid;  he  was  one  of  those  men  who  can  be  prompt  with- 
out being  rash,  because  their  motives  run  in  fixed  tracks,  and 
they  have  no  need  to  reconcile  conflicting  aims. 

To  suppose  that  Wakem  had  the  same  sort  of  inveterate 
hatred  towards  Tulliver  that  Tulliver  had  towards  him  would 
be  like  supposing  that  a  pike  and  a  roach  can  look  at  each 
other  from  a  similar  point  of  view.  The  roach  necessarily 
abhors  the  mode  in  which  the  pike  gets  his  living,  and  the 
pike  is  likely  to  think  nothing  further  even  of  the  most  in- 
dignant roach  than  that  he  is  excellent  good  eating ;  it  could 
only  be  when  the  roach  choked  him  that  the  pike  could  enter- 
tain a  strong  personal  animosity.  If  Mr.  Tulliver  had  ever 
seriously  injured  or  thwarted  the  attorney,  Wakem  would  not 
have  refused  him  the  distinction  of  being  a  special  object  of 
his  vindictiveness.  But  when  Mr.  Tulliver  called  \Vukem  a 
rascal  at  the  market  dinner-table,  the  attorney's  clients  were 
not  a  whit  inclined  to  withdraw  their  business  from  him ;  and 
if,  when  Wakem  himself  happened  to  be  present,  some  jocose 
cattle-feeder,  stimulated  by  opportunity  and  brandy,  made  a 
thrust  at  him  by  alluding  to  old  ladies'  wills,  he  maintained 
perfect  sang  froid,  and  knew  quite  well  that  the  majority  of 
substantial  men  then  present  were  perfectly  contented  with  the 
fact  that  '•  Wakem  was  Wakem ; "  that  is  to  say,  a  man  who 
always  knew  the  stepping-stones  that  would  carry  him  through 
very  muddy  bits  of  practice.  A  man  who  had  made  a  large 
fortune,  had  a  handsome  house  among  the  trees  at  Toftoii,  and 
decidedly  the  finest  stock  of  port-wine  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
St.  egg's,  was  likely  to  feel  himself  on  a  level  with  public 
opinion.  And  I  am  not  sure  that  even  honest  Mr.  Tulliver 
himself,  with  his  general  view  of  law  as  a  cockpit,  might  not, 
under  opposite  circumstances,  have  seen  a  fine  appropriate- 
ness in  the  truth  that  "  Wakem  was  Wakem ; "  since  I  have 
understood  from  persons  versed  in  history,  that  mankind  is 
not  disposed  to  look  narrowly  into  the  conduct  of  great  vic- 
tors when  their  victory  is  on  the  right  side.  Tulliver,  then, 
could  be  no  obstruction  to  Wakem ;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  a 
poor  devil  whom  the  lawyer  had  defeated  several  times ;  a 
hot-tempered  fellow,  who  would  always  give  you  a  handle 
against  him.  Wakem's  conscience  was  not  uneasy  because  he 
had  used  a  few  tricks  against  the  miller ;  why  should  he  hate 


THE  DOWNFALL.  238 

that  unsuccessful  plaintiff,  that  pitiable,  furious  bull  entan- 
gled in  the  meshes  of  a  net  ? 

Still,  among  the  various  excesses  to  which  human  nature  is 
subject,  moralists  have  never  numbered  that  of  being  too  fond 
of  the  people  who  openly  revile  us.  The  successful  Yellow 
candidate  for  the  borough  of  Old  Topping,  perhaps,  feels 
no  pursuant  meditative  hatred  toward  the  Blue  editor  who 
consoles  his  subscribers  with  vituperative  rhetoric  against 
Yellow  men  who  sell  their  country,  and  are  the  demons  of 
private  life  ;  but  he  might  not  be  sorry,  if  law  and  oppor. 
tunity  favoured,  to  kick  that  Blue  editor  to  a  deeper  shade 
of  his  favourite  colour.  Prosperous  men  take  a  little  ven- 
geance now  and  then,  as  they  take  a  diversion,  when  it 
comes  easily  in  their  way,  and  is  no  hindrance  to  business  ; 
and  such  small  unimpassioned  revenges  have  an  enormous 
effect  in  life,  running  through  all  degrees  of  pleasant  inflic- 
tion, blocking  the  fit  men  out  of  places,  and  blackening  char- 
acters in  unpremeditated  talk.  Still  more,  to  see  people  who 
have  been  only  insignificantly  offensive  to  us  reduced  in  life 
and  humiliated,  without  any  special  efforts  of  ours,  is  apt  to 
have  a  soothing,  flattering  influence.  Providence  or  some  other 
prince  of  this  world,  it  appears,  has  undertaken  the  task  of 
retribution  for  us  ;  and  really,  by  an  agreeable  constitution  of 
things,  our  enemies  somehow  don't  prosper. 

Wakem  was  not  without  this  parenthetic  vindictiveness 
towards  the  uncomplimentary  miller ;  and  now  Mrs.  Tulliver 
had  put  the  notion  into  his  head,  it  presented  itself  to  him  as 
a  pleasure  to  do  the  very  thing  that  would  cause  Mr.  Tulliver 
the  most  deadly  mortification,  —  and  a  pleasure  of  a  complex 
kind,  not  made  up  of  crude  malice,  but  mingling  with  it  the 
relish  of  self-approbation.  To  see  an  enemy  humiliated  gives 
a  certain  contentment,  but  this  is  jejune  compared  with  the 
highly  blent  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  humiliated  by  your 
benevolent  action  or  concession  on  his  behalf.  That  is  a  sort 
of  revenge  which  falls  into  the  scale  of  virtue,  and  Wakem 
was  not  without  an  intention  of  keeping  that  scale  respectably 
filled.  He  had  once  had  the  pleasure  of  putting  an  old  enemy 
of  his  into  one  of  the  St.  Ogg's  alms-houses,  to  the  rebuilding 
of  which  he  had  given  a  large  subscription  ;  and  here  was  an 
opportunity  of  providing  for  another  by  making  him  his  own 
servant.  Such  things  give  a  completeness  to  prosperity,  and 
contribute  elements  of  agreeable  consciousness  that  are  not 
dreamed  of  by  that  short-sighted,  over-heated  vindictiveness 
which  goes  out  of  its  way  to  wreak  itself  in  direct  injury. 


234  THE   MILL    ON    THE   FLOSS. 

And  Tulliver,  with  his  rough  tongue  filed  by  a  sense  of  obliga- 
tion, would  make  a  better  servant  than  any  ehance-fello'W  who 
was  cap-in-hand  for  a  situation.  Tulliver  was  known  to  be  a 
man  of  proud  honesty,  and  Wakem  was  too  acute  not  to  be- 
lieve in  the  existence  of  honesty.  He  was  given  to  observing 
individuals,  not  to  judging  of  them  according  to  maxims,  and 
no  one  knew  better  than  he  that  all  men  were  not  like  himself. 
Besides,  he  intended  to  overlook  the  whole  business  of  land 
and  mill  pretty  closely ;  he  was  fond  of  these  practical  rural 
matters.  But  there  were  good  reasons  for  purchasing  Dorl- 
cote  Mill,  quite  apart  from  any  benevolent  vengeance  on  the 
miller.  It  was  really  a  capital  investment ;  besides,  Guest  & 
Co.  were  going  to  bid  for  it.  Mr.  Guest  and  Mr.  Wakem  were 
on  friendly  dining  terms,  and  the  attorney  liked  to  predom- 
inate over  a  ship-owner  and  mill-owner  who  was  a  little  too 
loud  in  the  town  affairs  as  well  as  in  his  table-talk.  For 
Wakem  was  not  a  mere  man  of  business  ;  he  was  considered  a 
pleasant  fellow  in  the  upper  circles  of  St.  Ogg's  —  chatted 
amusingly  over  his  port-wine,  did  a  little  amateur  farming, 
and  had  certainly  been  an  excellent  husband  and  father  ; 
at  church,  when  he  went  there,  he  sat  under  the  handsomest 
of  mural  monuments  erected  to  the  memory  of  his  wife.  Most 
men  would  have  married  again  under  his  circumstances,  but 
he  was  said  to  be  more  tender  to  his  deformed  son  than 
most  men  were  to  their  best-shapen  offspring.  Not  that 
Mr.  Wakem  had  not  other  sons  besides  Philip ;  but  towards 
them  he  held  only  a  chiaroscuro  parentage,  and  provided  for 
them  in  a  grade  of  life  duly  beneath  his  own.  In  this  fact, 
indeed,  there  lay  the  clenching  motive  to  the  purchase  of 
Dorlcote  Mill.  While  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  talking,  it  had 
occurred  to  the  rapid-minded  lawyer,  among  all  the  other 
circumstances  of  the  case,  that  this  purchase  would,  in  a  few 
years  to  come,  furnish  a  highly  suitable  position  for  a  certain 
favourite  lad  whom  he  meant  to  bring  on  in  the  world. 

These  were  the  mental  conditions  on  which  Mrs.  Tulliver 
had  undertaken  to  act  persuasively,  and  had  failed ;  a  fact 
which  may  receive  some  illustration  from  the  remark  of 
a  great  philosopher,  that  fly-fishers  fail  in  preparing  their 
bait  so  as  to  make  it  alluring  in  the  right  quarter,  for  want  of 
a  due  acquaintance  with  the  subjectivity  of  fishes. 


THE  DOWNFALL.  235 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

DAYLIGHT    ON    THE    WRECK. 

IT  was  a  clear  frosty  January  day  on  which  Mr.  Tulliver 
first  came  down-stairs.  The  bright  sun  on  the  chestnut  boughs 
and  the  roofs  opposite  his  window  had  made  him  impatiently 
declare  that  he  would  be  caged  up  no  longer ;  he  thought 
everywhere  would  be  more  cheery  under  this  sunshine  than 
his  bedroom ;  for  he  knew  nothing  of  the  bareness  below, 
which  made  the  flood  of  sunshine  importunate,  as  if  it  had 
an  unfeeling  pleasure  in  showing  the  empty  places,  and  the 
marks  where  well-known  objects  once  had  been.  The  impres- 
sion on  his  mind  that  it  was  but  yesterday  when  he  received 
the  letter  from  Mr.  Gore  was  so  continually  implied  in  his 
talk,  and  the  attempts  to  convey  to  him  the  idea  that  many 
weeks  had  passed  and  much  had  happened  since  then  had 
been  so  soon  swept  away  by  recurrent  forgetfulness,  that  even 
Mr.  Turnbull  had  begun  to  despair  of  preparing  him  to  meet 
the  facts  by  previous  knowledge.  The  full  sense  of  the 
present  could  only  be  imparted  gradually  by  new  experience, 
—  not  by  mere  words,  which  must  remain  weaker  than  the 
impressions  left  by  the  old  experience.  This  resolution  to 
come  down-stairs  was  heard  with  trembling  by  the  wife  and 
children.  Mrs.  Tulliver  said  Tom  must  not  go  to  St.  Ogg's 
at  the  usual  hour,  he  must  wait  and  see  his  father  down- 
stairs ;  and  Tom  complied,  though  with  an  intense  inward 
shrinking  from  the  painful  scene.  The  hearts  of  all  three 
had  been  more  deeply  dejected  than  ever  during  the  last  few 
days.  For  Guest  &  Co.  had  not  bought  the  mill ;  both  mill 
and  land  had  been  knocked  down  to  Wakem,  who  had  been 
over  the  premises,  and  had  laid  before  Mr.  Deane  and  Mr. 
Glegg,  in  Mrs.  Tulliver's  presence,  his  willingness  to  employ 
Mr.  Tulliver,  in  case  of  his  recovery,  as  a  manager  of  the 
business.  This  proposition  had  occasioned  much  family 
debating.  Uncles  and  aunts  were  almost  unanimously  of 
opinion  that  such  an  offer  ought  not  to  be  rejected  when 
there  was  nothing  in  the  way  but  a  feeling  in  Mr.  Tulliver's 
mind,  which,  as  neither  aunts  nor  uncles  shared  it,  was 
regarded  as  entirely  unreasonable  and  childish,  —  indeed,  as 


236  THE  MILL    ON   THE  FLOSS. 

a  transferring  towards  Wakein  of  that  indignation  and  hatred 
which  Mr.  Tulliver  ought  properly  to  have  directed  against 
himself  for  his  general  quarrelsomeness,  and  his  special 
exhibition  of  it  in  going  to  law.  Here  was  an  opportunity 
for  Mr.  Tulliver  to  provide  for  his  wife  and  daughter  without 
any  assistance  from  his  wife's  relations,  and  without  that 
too  evident  descent  into  pauperism  which  makes  it  annoy n:; 
to  respectable  people  to  meet  the  degraded  member  of 
family  by  the  wayside.  Mr.  Tulliver,  Mrs.  Glegg  considered, 
must  be  made  to  feel,  when  he  came  to  his  right  mind,  that  he 
could  never  humble  himself  enough  ;  for  that  had  come  which 
she  had  always  foreseen  would  come  of  his  insolence  in  time  past 
"  to  them  as  were  the  best  friends  he  'd  got  to  look  to."  Mr. 
Glegg  and  Mr.  Deane  were  less  stern  in  their  views,  but  they 
both  of  them  thought  Tulliver  had  done  enough  harm  by  his 
hot-tempered  crotchets,  and  ought  to  put  them  out  of  the  ques- 
tion when  a  livelihood  was  offered  him  ;  Wakem  showed  a 
right  feeling  about  the  matter,  —  he  had  no  grudge  against 
Tulliver.  Torn  had  protested  against  entertaining  the  propo- 
sition. He  should  n't  like  his  father  to  be  under  Wakem ;  he 
thought  it  would  look  mean-spirited;  but  his  mother's  main 
distress  was  the  utter  impossibility  of  ever  "  turning  M  r. 
Tulliver  round  about  Wakem,"  or  getting  him  to  hear  reason ; 
no,  they  would  all  have  to  go  and  live  in  a  pigsty  on  pur- 
pose to  spite  Wakem,  who  spoke  "so  as  nobody  could  be 
fairer."  Indeed,  Mrs.  Tulliver's  mind  was  reduced  to  such 
confusion  by  living  in  this  strange  medium  of  unaccountable 
sorrow,  against  which  she  continually  appealed  by  asking, 
"Oh  dear,  what  have  I  done  to  deserve  worse  than  other 
women?"  that  Maggie  began  to  suspect  her  poor  mother's 
wits  were  quite  going. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  when  they  were  out  of  their  father's  room 
together,  "we  must  try  to  make  father  understand  a  little  of 
what  has  happened  before  he  goes  down-stairs.  But  we  must 
get  my  mother  away.  She  will  say  something  that  will  do 
harm.  Ask  Kezia  to  fetch  her  down,  and  keep  her  engaged 
with  something  in  the  kitchen." 

Kezia  was  equal  to  the  task.  Having  declared  her  inten- 
tion of  staying  till  the  master  could  get  about  again,  "  wage 
or  no  wage,"  she  had  found  a  certain  recompense  in  keeping 
a  strong  hand  over  her  mistress,  scolding  her  for  "moither- 
ing  "  herself,  and  going  about  all  day  without  changing  her 
cap,  and  looking  as  if  she  was  "  mushed."  Altogether,  this 
time  of  trouble  was  rather  a  Saturnalian  time  to  Kezia;  she 


THE  DOWNFALL.  237 

could  scold  her  betters  with  unreproved  freedom.  On  this 
particular  occasion  there  were  drying  clothes  to  be  fetched 
in ;  she  wished  to  know  if  one  pair  of  hands  could  do  every- 
thing in-doors  and  out,  and  observed  that  she  should  have 
thought  it  would  be  good  for  Mrs.  Tulliver  to  put  on  her 
bonnet,  and  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air  by  doing  that  needful 
piece  of  work.  Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  went  submissively  down- 
stairs ;  to  be  ordered  about  by  a  servant  was  the  last  remnant 
of  her  household  dignities,  —  she  would  soon  have  no  servant 
to  scold  her.  Mr.  Tulliver  was  resting  in  his  chair  a  little 
after  the  fatigue  of  dressing,  and  Maggie  and  Tom  were 
seated  near  him,  when  Luke  entered  to  ask  if  he  should  help 
master  down-stairs. 

"Ay,  ay,  Luke;  stop  a  bit,  sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver, 
pointing  his  stick  towards  a  chair,  and  looking  at  him  with 
that  pursuant  gaze  which  convalescent  persons  often  have 
for  those  who  have  tended  them,  reminding  one  of  an  infant 
gazing  about  after  its  nurse.  For  Luke  had  been  a  constant 
night-watcher  by  his  master's  bed. 

"  How 's  the  water  now,  eh,  Luke  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  Dix 
has  n't  been  choking  you  up  again,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  it 's  all  right." 

"  Ay,  I  thought  not ;  he  won't  be  in  a  hurry  at  that  again, 
now  Riley's  been  to  settle  him.  That  was  what  I  said  to 
Riley  yesterday  —  I  said  —  " 

Mr.  Tulliver  leaned  forward,  resting  his  elbows  on  the  arm- 
chair, and  looking  on  the  ground  as  if  in  search  of  something, 
striving  after  vanishing  images  like  a  man  struggling  against 
a  doze.  Maggie  looked  at  Tom  in  mute  distress,  their  father's 
mind  was  so  far  off  the  present,  which  would  by-and-by  thrust 
itself  on  his  wandering  consciousness  !  Tom  was  almost  ready 
to  rush  away,  with  that  impatience  of  painful  emotion  which 
makes  one  of  the  differences  between  youth  and  maiden,  man 
and  woman. 

"Father,"  said  Maggie,  laying  her  hand  on  his,  "don't  you 
remember  that  Mr.  Riley  is  dead  ?  " 

"  Dead  ? "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  sharply,  looking  in  her  face 
with  a  strange,  examining  glance. 

"  Yes,  he  died  of  apoplexy  nearly  a  year  ago.  I  remember 
hearing  you  say  you  had  to  pay  money  for  him ;  and  he  left 
his  daughters  badly  off ;  one  of  them  is  under-teacher  at  Miss 
Firniss's,  where  I  've  been  to  school,  you  know." 

"  Ah  ?  "  said  her  father,  doubtfully,  still  looking  in  her  face. 
But  as  soon  as  Tom  began  to  speak  he  turned  to  look  at  him 


238  THE   MILL    ON    THE    FLOSS. 

with  the  same  inquiring  glances,  as  if  he  were  rather  surprised 
at  the  presence  of  these  two  young  people.  Whenever  his  mind 
was  wandering  in  the  far  past,  he  fell  into  this  oblivion  of  their 
actual  faces ;  they  were  not  those  of  the  lad  and  the  little  wench 
who  belonged  to  that  past. 

"  It 's  a  long  while  since  you  had  the  dispute  with  Dix, 
father,"  said  Tom.  "  I  remember  your  talking  about  it  three 
years  ago,  before  I  went  to  school  at  Mr.  Stelling's.  1  've  been 
at  school  there  three  years  ;  don't  you  remember  '.'  " 

Mr.  Tulliver  threw  himself  backward  again,  losing  the  child- 
like outward  glance  under  a  rush  of  new  ideas,  which  diverted 
him  from  external  impressions. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  he  said,  after  a  minute  or  two,  "  I  've  paid  a  deal 
o'  money  —  I  was  determined  my  son  should  have  a  good  eddi- 
cation;  I'd  none  myself,  and  I've  felt  the  miss  of  it.  And 
he  '11  want  no  other  fortin,  that 's  what  I  say  —  if  Wakem  was 
to  get  the  better  of  me  again  —  " 

The  thought  of  Wakem  roused  new  vibrations,  and  aftt-r  a 
moment's  pause  he  began  to  look  at  the  coat  he  had  on,  and  to 
feel  in  his  side-pocket.  Then  he  turned  to  Tom,  and  said  in 
his  old  sharp  way,  "  Where  have  they  put  Gore's  letter  ?  " 

It  was  close  at  hand  in  a  drawer,  for  he  had  often  asked  for 
it  before. 

"  You  know  what  there  is  in  the  letter,  father  ?  "  said  Tom, 
as  he  gave  it  to  him. 

"  To  be  sure  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  rather  angrily.  "  What 
o'  that?  If  Furley  can't  take  to  the  property,  somebody  "1st- 
can;  there's  plenty  o'  people  in  the  world  besides  Furley. 
But  it 's  hindering  —  my  not  being  well  —  go  and  tell  'em  to 
get  the  horse  in  the  gig,  Luke ;  I  can  get  down  to  St.  Ogg's 
well  enough  —  Gore's  expecting  me." 

"  No,  dear  father !  "  Maggie  burst  out  entreatingly  ;  "  it 's  a 
very  long  while  since  all  that ;  you  've  been  ill  a  great  many 
weeks,  —  more  than  two  months ;  everything  is  changed." 

Mr.  Tulliver  looked  at  them  all  three  alternately  with  a 
startled  gaze  ;  the  idea  that  much  had  happened  of  which  ln« 
knew  nothing  had  often  transiently  arrested  him  before,  but 
it  came  upon  him  now  with  entire  novelty. 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Tom,  in  answer  to  the  gaze.  "  You 
need  n't  trouble  your  mind  about  business  until  you  are  quite 
well ;  everything  is  settled  about  that  for  the  present,  —  about 
the  mill  and  the  land  and  the  debts." 

"  What 's  settled,  then  ?  "  said  his  father,  angrily. 

"Don't  you  take  on  too  much  about  it,  sir,"  said  Luke. 


THE  DOWNFALL.  239 

*< You'd  ha'  paid  iverybody  if  you  could,  —  that's  what  I 
said  to  Master  Tom,  —  I  said  you'd  ha'  paid  iverybody  if  you 
could." 

Good  Luke  felt,  after  the  manner  of  contented  hard-working 
men  whose  lives  have  been  spent  in  servitude,  that  sense  of 
natural  fitness  in  rank  which  made  his  master's  downfall  a 
tragedy  to  him.  He  was  urged,  in  his  slow  way,  to  say  some- 
thing that  would  express  his  share  in  the  family  sorrow ;  and 
these  words,  which  he  had  used  over  and  over  again  to  Tom 
when  he  wanted  to  decline  the  full  payment  of  his  fifty  pounds 
out  of  the  children's  money,  were  the  most  ready  to  his  tongue. 
They  were  just  the  words  to  lay  the  most  painful  hold  on  his 
master's  bewildered  mind. 

"  Paid  everybody  ?  "  he  said,  with  vehement  agitation,  his 
face  flushing,  and  his  eye  lighting  up.  "Why  —  what  —  have 
they  made  me  a  bankrupt  ?  " 

"  Oh,  father,  dear  father ! "  said  Maggie,  who  thought  that 
terrible  word  really  represented  the  fact ;  "  bear  it  well,  be- 
cause we  love  you ;  your  children  will  always  love  you.  Tom 
will  pay  them  all ;  he  says  he  will,  when  he 's  a  man." 

She  felt  her  father  beginning  to  tremble ;  his  voice  trembled 
too,  as  he  said,  after  a  few  moments,  — 

"  Ay,  my  little  wench,  but  I  shall  never  live  twice  o'er." 

"  But  perhaps  you  will  live  to  see  me  pay  everybody,  father," 
said  Tom,  speaking  with  a  great  effort. 

"  Ah,  my  lad,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  shaking  his  head  slowly, 
"  but  what 's  broke  can  never  be  whole  again ;  it  'ud  be  your 
doing,  not  mine."  Then  looking  up  at  him,  "  You  're  only  six- 
teen ;  it 's  an  up-hill  fight  for  you,  but  you  must  n't  throw  it 
at  your  father ;  the  raskills  have  been  too  many  for  him.  I  've 
given  you  a  good  eddication, — that  '11  start  you." 

Something  in  his  throat  half  choked  the  last  words ;  the 
flush,  which  had  alarmed  his  children  because  it  had  so  often 
preceded  a  recurrence  of  paralysis,  had  subsided,  and  his  face 
looked  pale  and  tremulous.  Tom  said  nothing ;  he  was  still 
struggling  against  his  inclination  to  rush  away.  His  father 
remained  quiet  a  minute  or  two,  but  his  mind  did  not  seem  to 
be  wandering  again. 

"  Have  they  sold  me  up,  then  ?  "  he  said  more  calmly,  as  if 
he  were  possessed  simply  by  the  desire  to  know  what  had 
happened. 

"  Everything  is  sold,  father ;  but  we  don't  know  all  about 
the  mill  and  the  land  yet,"  said  Tom,  anxious  to  ward  off  any 
question  leading  to  the  fact  that  Wakem  was  the  purchaser. 


240  THE   MILL    ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  You  must  not  be  surprised  to  see  the  room  look  very  bare 
down-stairs,  father,"  said  Maggie ;  "  but  there 's  your  chair  and 
the  bureau ;  they  're  not  gone." 

"  Let  us  go ;  help  me  down,  Luke,  —  I  '11  go  and  see  every- 
thing," said  Mr.  Tulliver,  leaning  on  his  stick,  and  stretching 
out  his  other  hand  towards  Luke. 

"Ay,  sir,"  said  Luke,  as  he  gave  his  arm  to  his  master, 
"  you  '11  make  up  your  mind  to  't  a  bit  better  when  you  've 
seen  i  very  thing ;  you  '11  get  used  to  't.  That  's  what  my 
mother  says  about  her  shortness  o'  breath,  —  she  says  she  's 
made  friends  wi't  now,  though  she  fought  again'  it  sore  when 
it  fust  come  on." 

Maggie  ran  on  before  to  see  that  all  was  right  in  the  dreary 
parlour,  where  the  fire,  dulled  by  the  frosty  sunshine,  seemed 
part  of  the  general  shabbiness.  She  turned  her  father's  chair, 
and  pushed  aside  the  table  to  make  an  easy  way  for  him,  and 
then  stood  with  a  beating  heart  to  see  him  enter  and  look  round 
for  the  first  time.  Tom  advanced  before  him,  carrying  the 
leg-rest,  and  stood  beside  Maggie  on  the  hearth.  Of  those  two 
young  hearts  Tom's  suffered  the  most  unmixed  pain,  for  Mag- 
gie, with  all  her  keen  susceptibility,  yet  felt  as  if  the  sorrow 
made  larger  room  for  her  love  to  flow  in,  and  gave  breathing- 
space  to  her  passionate  nature.  No  true  boy  feels  that ;  he 
would  rather  go  and  slay  the  Nemean  lion,  or  perform  any 
round  of  heroic  labours,  than  endure  perpetual  appeals  to  his 
pity,  for  evils  over  which  he  can  make  no  conquest. 

Mr.  Tulliver  paused  just  inside  the  door,  resting  on  Luke, 
and  looking  round  him  at  all  the  bare  places,  which  for  him 
were  filled  with  the  shadows  of  departed  objects,  —  the  daily 
companions  of  his  life.  His  faculties  seemed  to  be  renewing 
their  strength  from  getting  a  footing  on  this  demonstration  of 
the  senses. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  said  slowly,  moving  towards  his  chair,  "  they  've 
sold  me  up  —  they  've  sold  me  up." 

Then  seating  himself,  and  laying  down  his  stick,  while  Luke 
left  the  room,  he  looked  round  again. 

"  They  've  left  the  big  Bible,"  he  said.  "  It 's  got  every- 
thing in,  — when  I  was  born  and  married  ;  bring  it  me, 
Tom." 

The  quarto  Bible  was  laid  open  before  him  at  the  fly-leaf, 
and  while  he  was  reading  with  slowly  travelling  eyes,  Mrs. 
Tulliver  entered  the  room,  but  stood  in  mute  surprise  to  find 
her  husband  down  already,  and  with  the  great  Bible  before 
him. 


THE   DOWNFALL.  241 

"Ah,"  he  said,  looking  at  a  spot  where  his  finger  rested, 
"my  mother  was  Margaret  Beaton;  she  died  when  she  was 
forty-seven,  —  hers  was  n't  a  long-lived  family  ;  we  're  our 
mother's  children,  Gritty  and  me  are,  —  we  shall  go  to  our  last 
bed  before  long." 

He  seemed  to  be  pausing  over  the  record  of  his  sister's  birth 
and  marriage,  as  if  it  were  suggesting  new  thoughts  to  him ; 
then  he  suddenly  looked  up  at  Tom,  and  said,  in  a  sharp  tone 
of  alarm,  — 

"  They  have  n't  coine  upo'  Moss  for  the  money  as  I  lent  him, 
have  they  ?  " 

"  No,  father,"  said  Tom  ;  "  the  note  was  burnt." 

Mr.  Tulliver  turned  his  eyes  on  the  page  again,  and  pres- 
ently said, — 

"  Ah  —  Elizabeth  Dodson  —  it 's  eighteen  year  since  I  mar- 
ried her  —  " 

"  Come  next  Ladyday,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  going  up  to 
his  side  and  looking  at  the  page. 

Her  husband  fixed  his  eyes  earnestly  on  her  face. 

"Poor  Bessy,"  he  said,  "you  was  a  pretty  lass  then, — 
everybody  said  so,  —  and  I  used  to  think  you  kept  your  good 
looks  rarely.  But  you  're  sorely  aged ;  don't  you  bear  me 
ill-will  —  I  meant  to  do  well  by  you  —  we  promised  one 
another  for  better  or  for  worse  —  " 

"  But  I  never  thought  it  'ud  be  so  for  worse  as  this,"  said 
poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  with  the  strange,  scared  look  that  had 
come  over  her  of  late ;  "  and  my  poor  father  gave  me  away 

—  and  to  come  on  so  all  at  once  — " 

"  Oh,  mother  !  "  said  Maggie,  "  don't  talk  in  that  way." 

"  No,  I  know  you  won't  let  your  poor  mother  speak  —  that 's 
been  the  way  all  my  life — your  father  never  minded  what 
I  said  —  it  'ud  have  been  o'  no  use  for  me  to  beg  and  pray  — 
and  it  'ud  be  no  use  now,  not  if  I  was  to  go  down  o'  my  hands 
and  knees  —  " 

"Don't  say  so,  Bessy,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  whose  pride,  in 
these  first  moments  of  humiliation,  was  in  abeyance  to  the 
sense  of  some  justice  in  his  wife's  reproach.  "  If  there 's 
anything  left  as  I  could  do  to  make  you  amends,  I  wouldn't 
say  you  nay." 

"Then  we  might  stay  here  and  get  a  living,  and  I  might 
keep  among  my  own  sisters,  —  and  me  been  such  a  good  wife 
to  you,  and  never  crossed  you  from  week's  end  to  week's  end 

—  and  they  all  say  so  —  they  say  it  'ud  be  nothing  but  right, 
only  you  're  so  turned  against  Wakem." 

16 


242  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Mother,"  said  Tom,  severely,  "  this  is  not  the  time  to  talk 
about  that." 

"  Let  her  be,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  Say  what  you  mean, 
Bessy." 

"  Why,  now  the  mill  and  the  land 's  all  Wakem's,  and  he 's 
got  everything  in  his  hands,  what 's  the  use  o'  setting  your 
face  against  him,  when  he  says  you  may  stay  here,  and 
speaks  as  fair  as  can  be,  and  says  you  may  manage  the 
business,  and  have  thirty  shilling  a-week,  and  a  horse  to  ride 
about  to  market  ?  And  where  have  we  got  to  put  our 
heads  ?  We  must  go  into  one  o'  the  cottages  in  the  village, 
—  and  me  and  my  children  brought  down  to  that,  —  and  all 
because  you  must  set  your  mind  against  folks  till  there's 
no  turning  you." 

Mr.  Tulliver  had  sunk  back  in  his  chair,  trembling. 

"  You  may  do  as  you  like  wi'  me,  Bessy,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice ;  "  I  've  been  the  bringing  of  you  to  poverty  —  this 
world 's  too  many  for  me  —  I'm  nought  but  a  bankrupt ; 
it's  no  use  standing  up  for  anything  now." 

"  Father,"  said  Tom,  "  I  don't  agree  with  my  mother  or  my 
uncles,  and  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  submit  to  be  under 
Wakem.  I  get  a  pound  a-week  now,  and  you  can  find  some- 
thing else  to  do  when  you  get  well." 

"  Say  no  more,  Tom,  say  no  more ;  I  've  had  enough  for  this 
day.  Give  me  a  kiss,  Bessy,  and  let  us  bear  one  another  no 
ill-will;  we  shall  never  be  young  again  —  this  world's  been 
too  many  for  me." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AN    ITEM    ADDED    TO    THE    FAMILY    REGISTER. 

THAT  first  moment  of  renunciation  and  submission  was 
followed  by  days  of  violent  struggle  in  the  miller's  mind, 
as  the  gradual  access  of  bodily  strength  brought  with  it 
increasing  ability  to  embrace  in  one  view  all  the  conflicting 
conditions  under  which  he  found  himself.  Feeble  limbs  easily 
resign  themselves  to  be  tethered,  and  when  we  are  subdued 
by  sickness  it  seems  possible  to  us  to  fulfil  pledges  which  the 
old  vigour  comes  back  and  breaks.  There  were  times  when 


THE  DOWNFALL.  243 

poor  Tulliver  thought  the  fulfilment  of  his  promise  to  Bessy 
was  something  quite  too  hard  for  human  nature ;  he  had 
promised  her  without  knowing  what  she  was  going  to  say,  — 
she  might  as  well  have  asked  him  to  carry  a  ton  weight  on  his 
back.  But  again,  there  were  many  feelings  arguing  on  her 
side,  besides  the  sense  that  life  had  been  made  hard  to  her  by 
having  married  him.  He  saw  a  possibility,  by  much  pinching, 
of  saving  money  out  of  his  salary  towards  paying  a  second 
dividend  to  his  creditors,  and  it  would  not  be  easy  elsewhere 
to  get  a  situation  such  as  he  could  fill.  He  had  led  an  easy 
life,  ordering  much  and  working  little,  and  had  no  aptitude  for 
any  new  business.  He  must  perhaps  take  to  day-labour,  and 
his  wife  must  have  help  from  her  sisters,  —  a  prospect  doubly 
bitter  to  him,  now  they  had  let  all  Bessy's  precious  things  be 
sold,  probably  because  they  liked  to  set  her  against  him,  by 
making  her  feel  that  he  had  brought  her  to  that  pass.  He 
listened  to  their  admonitory  talk,  when  they  came  to  urge  on 
him  what  he  was  bound  to  do  for  poor  Bessy's  sake,  with 
averted  eyes,  that  every  now  and  then  flashed  on  them  fur- 
tively when  their  backs  were  turned.  Nothing  but  the  dread 
of  needing  their  help  could  have  made  it  an  easier  alternative 
to  take  their  advice. 

But  the  strongest  influence  of  all  was  the  love  of  the  old 
premises  where  he  had  run  about  when  he  was  a  boy,  just 
as  Tom  had  done  after  him.  The  Tullivers  had  lived  on  this 
spot  for  generations,  and  he  had  sat  listening  on  a  low  stool  on 
winter  evenings  while  his  father  talked  of  the  old  half-tim- 
bered mill  that  had  been  there  before  the  last  great  floods 
which  damaged  it  so  that  his  grandfather  pulled  it  down  and 
built  the  new  one.  It  was  when  he  got  able  to  walk  about 
and  look  at  all  the  old  objects  that  he  felt  the  strain  of  this 
clinging  affection  for  the  old  home  as  part  of  his  life,  part 
of  himself.  He  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  himself  living 
on  any  other  spot  than  this,  where  he  knew  the  sound  of 
every  gate  and  door,  and  felt  that  the  shape  and  colour  of 
every  roof  and  weather-stain  and  broken  hillock  was  good, 
because  his  growing  senses  had  been  fed  on  them.  Our  in- 
structed vagrancy,  which  has  hardly  time  to  linger  by  the 
hedgerows,  but  runs  away  early  to  the  tropics,  and  is  at  home 
with  palms  and  banyans,  —  which  is  nourished  on  books  of 
travel  and  stretches  the  theatre  of  its  imagination  to  the  Zam- 
besi, —  can  hardly  get  a  dim  notion  of  what  an  old-fashioned 
man  like  Tulliver  felt  for  this  spot,  where  all  his  memories 
centred,  and  where  life  seemed  like  a  familiar  smooth-handled 


244  THE  MILL   ON    THE  FLOSS. 

tool  that  the  fingers  clutch  with  loving  ease.  And  just  now 
he  was  living  in  that  freshened  memory  of  the  far-off  time 
which  comes  to  us  in  the  passive  hours  of  recovery  from 
sickness. 

"  Ay,  Luke,"  he  said  one  afternoon,  as  he  stood  looking  over 
the  orchard  gate,  "  I  remember  the  day  they  planted  those 
apple-trees.  My  father  was  a  huge  man  for  planting,  —  it 
was  like  a  merry-making  to  him  to  get  a  cart  full  o'  young 
trees  ;  and  I  used  to  stand  i'  the  cold  with  him,  and  follow 
Iii in  about  like  a  dog." 

Then  he  turned  round,  and  leaning  against  the  gate-post, 
looked  at  the  opposite  buildings. 

"  The  old  mill  'ud  miss  me,  I  think,  Luke.  There  's  a  story 
as  when  the  mill  changes  hands,  the  river 's  angry ;  I  've 
heard  my  father  say  it  many  a  time.  There  's  no  telling 
whether  there  may  n't  be  suuimat  in  the  story,  for  this  is 
a  puzzling  world,  and  Old  Harry  's  got  a  finger  in  it  —  it 's 
been  too  many  for  me,  I  know." 

"  Ay,  sir,"  said  Luke,  with  soothing  sympathy,  "  what  wi' 
the  rust  on  the  wheat,  an'  the  firm'  o'  the  ricks  an'  that, 
as  I  've  seen  i'  my  time,  —  things  often  looks  comical ;  there  's 
the  bacon  fat  wi'  our  last  pig  runs  away  like  butter,  —  it 
leaves  nought  but  a  scratchin'. " 

"  It 's  just  as  if  it  was  yesterday,  now,"  Mr.  Tulliver  went 
on,  "  when  my  father  began  the  malting.  I  remember,  the  day 
they  finished  the  malt-house,  I  thought  summat  great  was  to 
come  of  it ;  for  we  'd  a  plum-pudding  that  day  and  a  bit  of  a 
feast,  and  I  said  to  my  mother,  —  she  was  a  fine  dark-eyed 
woman,  my  mother  was,  —  the  little  wench  'ull  be  as  like  her 
as  two  peas."  Here  Mr.  Tulliver  put  his  stick  between  his 
legs,  and  took  out  his  snuff-box,  for  the  greater  enjoyment  of 
this  anecdote,  which  dropped  from  him  in  fragments,  as  if  he 
every  other  moment  lost  narration  in  vision.  "  I  was  a  little 
chap  no  higher  much  than  my  mother's  knee,  —  she  was  sore 
fond  of  us  children,  Gritty  and  me,  —  and  so  I  said  to  her, 
'  Mother,'  I  said,  (  shall  we  have  plum-pudding  every  day  be- 
cause o'  the  malt-house  ? '  She  used  to  tell  me  o'  that  till 
her  dying  day.  She  was  but  a  young  woman  when  she  died, 
my  mother  was.  But  it 's  forty  good  year  since  they  finished 
the  malt-house,  and  it  isn't  many  days  out  of  'em  all  as  I 
have  n't  looked  out  into  the  yard  there,  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning, — all  weathers,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  I 
should  go  off  my  head  in  a  new  place.  I  should  be  like  as  if  I  'd 
lost  my  way.  It 's  all  hard,  whichever  way  I  look  at  it,  —  the 


THE  DOWNFALL.  245 

harness  'ull  gall  me,  but  it  'uii  be  sumiuat  to  draw  along  the 
old  road,  instead  of  a  new  un." 

"Ay,  sir,"  said  Luke,  "you'd  be  a  deal  better  here  nor  in 
some  new  place.  I  can't  abide  new  places  mysen :  things  is 
allays  awk'arcl, — narrow-wheeled  waggins,  belike,  and  the 
stiles  all  another  sort,  an'  oat-cake  i'  some  places,  tow'rt  th' 
head  o'  the  Floss,  there.  It 's  poor  work,  changing  your 
country-side." 

"  But  I  doubt,  Luke,  they  '11  be  for  getting  rid  o'  Ben,  and 
making  you  do  with  a  lad ;  and  I  must  help  a  bit  wi'  the 
mill.  You'll  have  a  worse  place." 

"Ne'er  miud,  sir,"  said  Luke,  "I  sha'n't  plague  mysen. 
I  'n  been  wi'  you  twenty  year,  an'  you  can't  get  twenty  year 
wi'  whistlin'  for  'em,  no  more  nor  you  can  make  the  trees 
grow :  you  muu  wait  till  God  A'mighty  sends  'em.  I  can't 
abide  new  victual  nor  new  faces,  /  can't, — you  niver  know 
but  what  they  '11  gripe  you." 

The  walk  was  finished  in  silence  after  this,  for  Luke  had 
disburthened  himself  of  thoughts  to  an  extent  that  left  his 
conversational  resources  quite  barren,  and  Mr.  Tulliver  had 
relapsed  from  his  recollections  into  a  painful  meditation  on  the 
choice  of  hardships  before  him.  Maggie  noticed  that  he  was 
unusually  absent  that  evening  at  tea ;  and  afterwards  he  sat 
leaning  forward  in  his  chair,  looking  at  the  ground,  moving 
his  lips,  and  shaking  his  head  from  time  to  time.  Then  he 
looked  hard  at  Mrs.  Tulliver,  who  was  knitting  opposite  him, 
then  at  Maggie,  who,  as  she  bent  over  her  sewing,  was  intensely 
conscious  of  some  drama  going  forward  in  her  father's  mind. 
Suddenly  he  took  up  the  poker  and  broke  the  large  coal 
fiercely. 

"  Dear  heart,  Mr.  Tulliver,  what  can  you  be  thinking  of  ?  " 
said  his  wife,  looking  up  in  alarm ;  "  it 's  very  wasteful,  break- 
ing the  coal,  and  we  've  got  hardly  any  large  coal  left,  and  I 
don't  know  where  the  rest  is  to  come  from." 
-  "I  don't  think  you're  quite  so  well  to-night,  are  you 
father?"  said  Maggie;  "you  seem  uneasy." 

"  Why,  how  is  it  Tom  does  n't  come  ?  "  said  Mr,  Tulliver, 
impatiently. 

"  Dear  heart !  is  it  time  ?  I  must  go  and  get  his  supper,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver,  laying  down  her  knitting,  and  leaving  the  room. 

"  It 's  nigh  upon  half-past  eight,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver.  "  He  '11 
be  here  soon.  Go,  go  and  get  the  big  Bible,  and  open  it  at  the 
beginning,  where  everything 's  set  down.  And  get  the  pen 
and  ink." 


246  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Maggie  obeyed,  wondering ;  but  her  father  gave  no  further 
orders,  and  only  sat  listening  for  Tom's  footfall  on  the  gravel, 
apparently  irritated  by  the  wind,  which  had  risen,  and  Avas 
roaring  so  as  to  drown  all  other  sounds.  There  was  a  strange 
light  in  his  eyes  that  rather  frightened  Maggie  j  she  began  to 
wish  that  Tom  would  come,  too. 

"  There  he  is,  then,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  in  an  excited  way, 
when  the  knock  came  at  last.  Maggie  went  to  open  the  door, 
but  her  mother  came  out  of  the  kitchen  hurriedly,  saying, 
"  Stop  a  bit,  Maggie ;  I  '11  open  it." 

Mrs.  Tulliver  had  begun  to  be  a  little  frightened  at  her  boy, 
but  she  was  jealous  of  every  office  others  did  for  him. 

"  Your  supper 's  ready  by  the  kitchen-fire,  my  boy,"  she  said, 
as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  coat.  "  You  shall  have  it  by  your- 
self, just  as  you  like,  and  I  won't  speak  to  you." 

"  I  think  my  father  wants  Tom,  mother,"  said  Maggie  ;  "  he 
must  come  into  the  parlour  first." 

Tom  entered  with  his  usual  saddened  evening  face,  but  his 
eyes  fell  immediately  on  the  open  Bible  and  the  inkstand,  and 
he  glanced  with  a  look  of  anxious  surprise  at  his  father,  who 
was  saying,  — 

"  Come,  come,  you  're  late ;  I  want  you." 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter,  father  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"You  sit  down,  all  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  peremp- 
torily. "  And,  Tom,  sit  down  here ;  I  've  got  something  for 
you  to  write  i'  the  Bible." 

They  all  three  sat  down,  looking  at  him.  He  began  to  speak 
slowly,  looking  first  at  his  wife. 

"  I  've  made  up  my  mind,  Bessy,  and  I  '11  be  as  good  as  my 
word  to  you.  There  '11  be  the  same  grave  made  for  us  to  lie 
down  in,  and  we  must  n't  be  bearing  one  another  ill-will.  I  '1 
stop  in  the  old  place,  and  I  '11  serve  under  Wakem,  and  I  '11 
serve  him  like  an  honest  man ;  there 's  no  Tulliver  but  what 's 
honest,  mind  that,  Tom,"  —  here  his  voice  rose,  —  "  they  '11  have 
it  to  throw  up  against  me  as  I  paid  a  dividend,  but  it  was  n't 
my  fault;  it  was  because  there's  raskills  in  the  world. 
They  've  been  too  many  for  me,  and  I  must  give  in.  I  '11  put 
my  neck  in  harness,  —  for  you  've  a  right  to  say  as  I  've 
brought  you  into  trouble,  Bessy,  —  and  I  '11  serve  him  as  hon- 
est as  if  he  was  no  raskill ;  I  'm  an  honest  man,  though  I  shall 
never  hold  my  head  up  no  more.  I  'm  a  tree  as  is  broke  —  a 
tree  as  is  broke." 

He  paused,  and  looked  on  the  ground.  Then  suddenly  rais- 
ing his  head,  he  said,  in  a  louder  yet  deeper  tone,  — 


THE  DOWNFALL.  247 

"  But  I  won't  forgive  him  !  I  know  what  they  say,  —  he 
never  meant  me  any  harm.  That 's  the  way  Old  Harry  props 
up  the  raskills.  He 's  been  at  the  bottom  of  everything ;  but 
he's  a  fine  gentleman,  —  I  know,  I  know.  I  shouldn't  ha' 
gone  to  law,  they  say.  But  who  made  it  so  as  there  was  no 
arbitrating  and  no  justice  to  be  got  ?  It  signifies  nothing  to 
him,  I  know  that;  he's  one  o'  them  fine  gentlemen  as  get 
money  by  doing  business  for  poorer  folks,  and  when  he  's  made 
beggars  of  'em  he  '11  give  'em  charity.  I  won't  forgive  him ! 
I  wish  he  might  be  punished  with  shame  till  his  own  son  'ud 
like  to  forget  him.  I  wish  he  may  do  suminat  as  they  'd  make 
him  work  at  the  treadmill !  But  he  won't,  —  he  's  too  big  a 
raskill  to  let  the  law  lay  hold  on  him.  And  you  mind  this, 
Tom,  —  you  never  forgive  him  neither,  if  you  mean  to  be  my 
son.  There  '11  maybe  come  a  time  when  you  may  make  him 
feel ;  it  '11  never  come  to  me ;  I  'n  got  my  head  under  the  yoke. 
Now  write  —  write  it  i'  the  Bible." 

"  0  father,  what  ?  "  said  Maggie,  sinking  down  by  his  knee, 
pale  and  trembling.  "  It 's  wicked  to  curse  and  bear  malice." 

"  It  is  n't  wicked,  I  tell  you,"  said  her  father,  fiercely.  "  It 's 
wicked  as  the  raskills  should  prosper;  it's  the  Devil's  doing. 
Do  as  I  tell  you,  Tom.  Write." 

"  What  am  I  to  write  ? "  said  Tom,  with  gloomy  sub- 
mission. 

"  Write  as  your  father,  Edward  Tulliver,  took  service  under 
John  Wakem,  the  man  as  had  helped  to  ruin  him,  because  I  'd 
promised  my  wife  to  make  her  what  amends  I  could  for  her 
trouble,  and  because  I  wanted  to  die  in  th'  old  place  where  I 
was  born  and  my  father  was  born.  Put  that  i'  the  right 
words  —  you  know  how  —  and  then  write,  as  I  don't  forgive 
Wakem  for  all  that ;  and  for  all  I  '11  serve  him  honest,  I  wish 
evil  may  befall  him.  Write  that." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  as  Tom's  pen  moved  along  the 
paper ;  Mrs.  Tulliver  looked  scared,  and  Maggie  trembled  like  a 
leaf. 

"  Now  let  me  hear  what  you  've  wrote,"  said  Mr.  TulliveE 
Tom  read  aloud  slowly. 

"Now  write  —  write  as  you'll  remember  what  Wakem 's 
done  to  your  father,  and  you  '11  make  him  and  his  feel  it,  if 
ever  the  day  comes.  And  sign  your  name  Thomas  Tulliver." 

"  Oh  no,  father,  dear  father  ! "  said  Maggie,  almost  choked 
with  fear.  "  You  should  n't  make  Tom  write  that." 

"  Be  quiet,  Maggie  J "  said  Tom.     "  I  shall  write  it." 


BOOK   IV. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A    VARIATION    OF    PROTESTANTISM    UNKNOWN    TO    BOSSUET. 

JOURNEYING  down  the  Rhone  on  a  summer's  day,  you  have 
perhaps  felt  the  sunshine  made  dreary  by  those  ruined  vil- 
lages which  stud  the  banks  in  certain  parts  of  its  course,  tell- 
ing how  the  swift  river  once  rose,  like  an  angry,  destroying 
god,  sweeping  down  the  feeble  generations  whose  breath  is 
in  their  nostrils,  and  making  their  dwellings  a  desolation. 
Strange  contrast,  you  may  have  thought,  between  the  effect 
produced  on  us  by  these  dismal  remnants  of  commonplace 
houses,  which  in  their  best  days  were  but  the  sign  of  a  sordid 
life,  belonging  in  all  its  details  to  our  own  vulgar  era,  and  the 
effect  produced  by  those  ruins  on  the  castled  Rhine,  which 
have  crumbled  and  mellowed  into  such  harmony  with  the 
green  and  rocky  steeps  that  they  seem  to  have  a  natural 
fitness,  like  the  mountain-pine;  nay,  even  in  the  day  when 
they  were  built  they  must  have  had  this  fitness,  as  if  they 
had  been  raised  by  an  earth-born  race,  who  had  inherited  from 
their  mighty  parent  a  sublime  instinct  of  form.  And  that  was 
a  day  of  romance  !  If  those  robber-barons  were  somewhat 
grim  and  drunken  ogres,  they  had  a  certain  grandeur  of  the 
wild  beast  in  them,  —  they  were  forest  boars  with  tusks,  tear- 
ing and  rending,  not  the  ordinary  domestic  grunter;  they  rep- 
resented the  demon  forces  for  ever  in  collision  with  beauty, 
virtue,  and  the  gentle  uses  of  life ;  they  made  a  fine  contrast 
in  the  picture  with  the  wandering  minstrel,  the  soft-lipped 
princess,  the  pious  recluse,  and  the  timid  Israelite.  That  was 
a  time  of  colour,  when  the  sunlight  fell  on  glancing  steel  and 
floating  banners ;  a  time  of  adventure  and  fierce  struggle,  — 
nay,  of  living,  religious  art  and  religious  enthusiasm ;  for 
were  not  cathedrals  built  in  those  days,  and  did  not  great 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  249 

emperors  leave  their  Western  palaces  to  die  before  the  infidel 
strongholds  in  the  sacred  East?  Therefore  it  is  that  these 
Rhine  castles  thrill  me  with  a  sense  of  poetry ;  they  belong  to 
the  grand  historic  life  of  humanity,  and  raise  up  for  me  the 
vision  of  an  epoch.  But  these  dead  tinted,  hollowed-eyed,  angu- 
lar skeletons  of  villages  on  the  Rhone  oppress  me  with  the 
feeling  that  human  life  —  very  much  of  it  —  is  a  narrow,  ugly, 
grovelling  existence,  which  even  calamity  does  not  elevate,  but 
rather  tends  to  exhibit  in  all  its  bare  vulgarity  of  conception ; 
and  I  have  a  cruel  conviction  that  the  lives  these  ruins  are  the 
traces  of  were  part  of  a  gross  sum  of  obscure  vitality,  that 
will  be  swept  into  the  same  oblivion  with  the  generations  of 
ants  and  beavers. 

Perhaps  something  akin  to  this  oppressive  feeling  may  have 
weighed  upon  you  in  watching  this  old-fashioned  family  life 
on  the  banks  of  the  Floss,  which  even  sorrow  hardly  suffices 
to  lift  above  the  level  of  the  tragi-comic.  It  is  a  sordid  life, 
you  say,  this  of  the  Tullivers  and  Dodsons,  irradiated  by  no 
sublime  principles,  no  romantic  visions,  no  active,  self-renounc- 
ing faith ;  moved  by  none  of  those  wild,  uncontrollable  passions 
which  create  the  dark  shadows  of  misery  and  crime ;  without 
that  primitive,  rough  simplicity  of  wants,  that  hard,  submissive, 
ill-paid  toil,  that  child-like  spelling-out  of  what  nature  has  writ- 
ten, which  gives  its  poetry  to  peasant  life.  Here  one  has  con- 
ventional worldly  notions  and  habits  without  instruction  and 
without  polish,  surely  the  most  prosaic  form  of  human  life; 
proud  respectability  in  a  gig  of  unfashionable  build ;  worldli- 
ness  without  side-dishes.  Observing  these  people  narrowly, 
even  when  the  iron  hand  of  misfortune  has  shaken  them  from 
their  unquestioning  hold  on  the  world,  one  sees  little  trace  of 
religion,  still  less  of  a  distinctively  Christian  creed.  Their  be- 
lief in  the  Unseen,  so  far  as  it  manifests  itself  at  all,  seems  to  be 
rather  of  a  pagan  kind ;  their  moral  notions,  though  held  with 
strong  tenacity,  seem  to  have  no  standard  beyond  hereditary 
custom.  You  could  not  live  among  such  people ;  you  are  stifled 
for  want  of  an  outlet  towards  something  beautiful,  great,  or 
noble ;  you  are  irritated  with  these  dull  men  and  women,  as  a 
kind  of  population  out  of  keeping  with  the  earth  on  which  they 
live,  —  with  this  rich  plain  where  the  great  river  flows  for  ever 
onward,  and  links  the  small  pulse  of  the  old  English  town  with 
the  beatings  of  the  world's  mighty  heart.  A  vigorous  supersti- 
tion, that  lashes  its  gods  or  lashes  its  own  back,  seems  to  be  more 
congruous  with  the  mystery  of  the  human  lot,  than  the  mental 
condition  of  these  emmet-like  Dodsons  and  Tullivers. 


250  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

I  share  with  you  this  sense  of  oppressive  narrowness  ;  but  it 
is  necessary  that  we  should  feel  it,  if  we  care  to  understand 
how  it  acted  on  the  lives  of  Tom  and  Maggie,  —  how  it  has  acted 
on  young  natures  in  many  generations,  that  in  the  onward  ten- 
dency of  human  things  have  risen  above  the  mental  level  of 
the  generation  before  them,  to  which  they  have  been  neverthe- 
less tied  by  the  strongest  fibres  of  their  hearts.  The  suffering, 
whether  of  martyr  or  victim,  which  belongs  to  every  historical 
advance  of  mankind,  is  represented  in  this  way  in  every  town, 
and  by  hundreds  of  obscure  hearths ;  and  we  need  not  shrink 
from  this  comparison  of  small  things  with  great ;  for  does  not 
science  tell  us  that  its  highest  striving  is  after  the  ascertainment 
of  a  unity  which  shall  bind  the  smallest  things  with  the  great- 
est ?  In  natural  science,  I  have  understood,  there  is  noth- 
ing petty  to  the  mind  that  has  a  large  vision  of  relations, 
and  to  which  every  single  object  suggests  a  vast  sum  of 
conditions.  It  is  surely  the  same  with  the  observation  of 
human  life. 

Certainly  the  religious  and  moral  ideas  of  the  Dodsons  and 
Tullivers  were  of  too  specific  a  kind  to  be  arrived  at  deduc- 
tively, from  the  statement  that  they  were  part  of  the  Protest- 
ant population  of  Great  Britain.  Their  theory  of  life  had  its 
core  of  soundness,  as  all  theories  must  have  on  which  decent 
and  prosperous  families  have  been  reared  and  have  nourished ; 
but  it  had  the  very  slightest  tincture  of  theology.  If,  in  the 
maiden  days  of  the  Dodson  sisters,  their  Bibles  opened  more 
easily  at  some  parts  than  others,  it  was  because  of  dried  tulip- 
petals,  which  had  been  distributed  quite  impartially,  without 
preference  for  the  historical,  devotional,  or  doctrinal.  Their 
religion  was  of  a  simple,  semi-pagan  kind,  but  there  was  no 
heresy  in  it,  —  if  heresy  properly  means  choice,  —  for  they 
didn't  know  there  was  any  other  religion,  except  that  of 
chapel-goers,  which  appeared  to  run  in  families,  like  asthma. 
How  should  they  know  ?  The  vicar  of  their  pleasant  rural 
parish  was  not  a  controversialist,  but  a  good  hand  at  whist, 
and  one  who  had  a  joke  always  ready  for  a  blooming  female 
parishioner.  The  religion  of  the  Dodsons  consisted  in  revering 
whatever  was  customary  and  respectable':  it  was  necessary  to 
be  baptized,  else  one  could  not  be  buried  in  the  church-yard, 
and  to  take  the  sacrament  before  death,  as  a  security  against 
more  dimly  understood  perils ;  but  it  was  of  equal  necessity 
to  have  the  proper  pall-bearers  and  well-cured  hams  at  one's 
funeral,  and  to  leave  an  unimpeachable  will.  A  Dodson  would 
not  be  taxed  with  the  omission  of  anything  that  was  becoming, 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  251 

or  that  belonged  to  that  eternal  iitness  of  things  which  was 
plainly  indicated  in  the  practice  of  the  most  substantial  pa- 
rishioners, and  in  the  family  traditions,  —  such  as  obedience  to 
parents,  faithfulness  to  kindred,  industry,  rigid  honesty,  thrift, 
the  thorough  scouring  of  wooden  and  copper  utensils,  the  hoard- 
ing of  coins  likely  to  disappear  from  the  currency,  the  produc- 
tion of  first-rate  commodities  for  the  market,  and  the  general 
preference  for  whatever  was  home-made.  The  Dodsons  were 
a  very  proud  race,  and  their  pride  lay  in  the  utter  frustration 
of  all  desire  to  tax  them  with  a  breach  of  traditional  duty  or 
propriety.  A  wholesome  pride  in  many  respects,  since  it  iden- 
tified honour  with  perfect  integrity,  thoroughness  of  work,  and 
faithfulness  to  admitted  rules ;  and  society  owes  some  worthy 
qualities  in  many  of  her  members  to  mothers  of  the  Dodson 
class,  who  made  their  butter  and  their  fromenty  well,  and  would 
have  felt  disgraced  to  make  it  otherwise.  To  be  honest  and 
poor  was  never  a  Dodson  motto,  still  less  to  seem  rich  though 
being  poor ; .  rather,  the  family  badge  was  to  be  honest  and 
rich,  and  not  only  rich,  but  richer  than  was  supposed.  To  live 
respected,  and  have  the  proper  bearers  at  your  funeral,  was  an 
achievement  of  the  ends  of  existence  that  would  be  entirely 
nullified  if,  on  the  reading  of  your  will,  you  sank  in  the  opinion 
of  your  fellow-men,  either  by  turning  out  to  be  poorer  than 
they  expected,  or  by  leaving  your  money  in  a  capricious  man- 
ner, without  strict  regard  to  degrees  of  kin.  The  right  thing 
must  always  be  done  towards  kindred.  The  right  thing  was 
to  correct  them  severely,  if  they  were  other  than  a  credit  to 
the  family,  but  still  not  to  alienate  from  them  the  smallest 
rightful  share  in  the  family  shoe-buckles  and  other  property. 
A  conspicuous  quality  in  the  Dodson  character  was  its  genu- 
ineness ;  its  vices  and  virtues  alike  were  phases  of  a  proud 
honest  egoism,  which  had  a  hearty  dislike  to  whatever  made 
against  its  own  credit  and  interest,  and  would  be  frankly  hard 
of  speech  to  inconvenient  "  kin,"  but  would  never  forsake  or 
ignore  them,  —  would  not  let  them  want  bread,  but  only  re- 
quire them  to  eat  it  with  bitter  herbs. 

The  same  sort  of  traditional  belief  ran  in  the  Tulliver  veins, 
but  it  was  carried  in  richer  blood,  having  elements  of  gener- 
ous imprudence,  warm  affection,  and  hot-tempered  rashness. 
Mr.  Tulliver's  grandfather  had  been  heard  to  say  that  he  was 
descended  from  one  Ralph  Tulliver,  a  wonderfully  clever 
fellow,  who  had  ruined  himself.  It  is  likely  enough  that  the 
clever  Ealph  was  a  high  liver,  rode  spirited  horses,  and  was 
very  decidedly  of  his  own  opinion.  On  the  other  hand, 


252  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

nobody  had  ever  heard  of  a  Dodson  who  had  ruined  himself  j 
it  was  not  the  way  of  that  family. 

If  such  were  the  views  of  life  on  which  the  Dodsons  and 
Tullivers  had  been  reared  in  the  praiseworthy  past  of  Pitt 
and  high  prices,  you  will  infer  from  what  you  already  know 
concerning  the  state  of  society  in  St.  Ogg's,  that  there  had 
IMTU  no  highly  modifying  influence  to  act  on  them  in  their 
maturer  life.  It  was  still  possible,  even  in  that  later  time 
of  anti-Catholic  preaching,  for  people  to  hold  many  pagan 
ideas,  and  believe  themselves  good  church-people  notwith- 
standing ;  so  we  need  hardly  feel  any  surprise  at  the  fact 
that  Mr.  Tulliver,  though  a  regular  church-goer,  recorded  his 
vindictiveness  on  the  fly-leaf  of  his  Bible.  It  was  not  that 
any  harm  could  be  said  concerning  the  vicar  of  that  charm- 
ing rural  parish  to  which  Dorlcote  Mill  belonged;  he  was 
a  man  of  excellent  family,  an  irreproachable  bachelor,  of 
elegant  pursuits, —  had  taken  honours,  and  held  a  fellowship. 
Mr.  Tulliver  regarded  him  with  dutiful  respect,  as  he  did 
everything  else  belonging  to  the  church-service  ;  but  he  con- 
sidered that  church  was  one  thing  and  common-sense  another, 
and  he  wanted  nobody  to  tell  him  what  common-sense  was. 
Certain  seeds  which  are  required  to  find  a  nidus  for  them- 
selves under  unfavourable  circumstances,  have  been  supplied 
by  nature  with  an  apparatus  of  hooks,  so  that  they  will  get 
a  hold  on  very  unreceptive  surfaces.  The  spiritual  seed 
which  had  been  scattered  over  Mr.  Tulliver  had  apparently 
been  destitute  of  any  corresponding  provision,  and  had  slipped 
off  to  the  winds  again,  from  a  total  absence  of  hooks. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    TORN    NEST    18    PIERCED    BY    THE    THORNS. 

THERE  is  something  sustaining  in  the  very  agitation  that 
accompanies  the  first  shocks  of  trouble,  just  as  an  acute  pain 
is  often  a  stimulus,  and  produces  an  excitement  which  is 
transient  strength.  It  is  in  the  slow,  changed  life  that 
follows ;  in  the  time  when  sorrow  has  become  stale,  and  has 
no  longer  an  emotive  intensity  that  counteracts  its  pain ;  in 
the  time  when  day  follows  day  in  dull,  unexpectant  sameness, 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  253 

and  trial  is  a  dreary  routine,  —  it  is  then  that  despair  threatens ; 
it  is  then  that  the  peremptory  hunger  of  the  soul  is  felt,  and  eye 
and  ear  are  strained  after  some  unlearned  secret  of  our  exist- 
ence, which  shall  give  to  endurance  the  nature  of  satisfaction. 
This  time  of  utmost  need  was  come  to  Maggie,  with  her 
short  span  of  thirteen  years.  To  the  usual  precocity  of  the 
girl,  she  added  that  early  experience  of  struggle,  of  conflict 
between  the  inward  impulse  and  outward  fact,  which  is  the 
lot  of  every  imaginative  and  passionate  nature ;  and  the  years 
since  she  hammered  the  nails  into  her  wooden  Fetish  among 
the  worm-eaten  shelves  of  the  attic  had  been  filled  with  so 
eager  a  life  in  the  triple  world  of  Reality,  Books,  and  Waking 
Dreams,  that  Maggie  was  strangely  old  for  her  years  in  every- 
thing except  in  her  entire  want  of  that  prudence  and  self- 
command  which  were  the  qualities  that  made  Tom  manly  in 
the  midst  of  his  intellectual  boyishness.  And  now  her  lot 
was  beginning  to  have  a  still,  sad  monotony,  which  threw  her 
more  than  ever  on  her  inward  self.  Her  father  was  able  to 
attend  to  business  again,  his  affairs  were  settled,  and  he  was 
acting  as  Wakem's  manager  on  the  old  spot.  Torn  went  to 
and  fro  every  morning  and  evening,  and  became  more  and 
more  silent  in  the  short  intervals  at  home ;  what  was  there  to 
say  ?  One  day  was  like  another ;  and  Tom's  interest  in  life, 
driven  back  and  crushed  on  every  other  side,  was  concentrat- 
ing itself  into  the  one  channel  of  ambitious  resistance  to 
misfortune.  The  peculiarities  of  his  father  and  mother  were 
very  irksome  to  him,  now  they  were  laid  bare  of  all  the 
softening  accompaniments  of  an  easy,  prosperous  home ;  for 
Tom  had  very  clear,  prosaic  eyes,  not  apt  to  be  dimmed  by 
mists  of  feeling  or  imagination.  Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  it 
seemed,  would  never  recover  her  old  self,  her  placid  household 
activity ;  how  could  she  ?  The  objects  among  which  her 
mind  had  moved  complacently  were  all  gone,  —  all  the  little 
hopes  and  schemes  and  speculations,  all  the  pleasant  little 
cares  about  her  treasures  which  had  made  the  world  quite 
comprehensible  to  her  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  since  she  had 
made  her  first  purchase  of  the  sugar-tongs,  had  been  suddenly 
snatched  away  from  her,  and  she  remained  bewildered  in  this 
empty  life.  Why  that  should  have  happened  to  her  which 
had  not  happened  to  other  women  remained  an  insoluble 
question  by  which  she  expressed  her  perpetual  ruminating 
comparison  of  the  past  with  the  present.  It  was  piteous  to 
see  the  comely  woman  getting  thinner  and  more  worn  under 
a  bodily  as  well  as  mental  restlessness,  which  made  her  often 


THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

wander  about  the  empty  house  after  her  work  was  done,  until 
Maggie,  becoming  alarmed  about  her,  would  seek  her,  and 
bring  her  down  by  telling  her  how  it  vexed  Tom  that  she 
injuring  her  health  by  never  sitting  down  and  resting  hersell. 
Yet  amidst  this  helpless  imbecility  there  was  a  touching 
trait  of  humble,  self-devoting  maternity,  which  made  Maggie 
feel  tenderly  towards  her  poor  mother  amidst  all  the  little 
wearing  griefs  caused  by  her  mental  feebleness.  She  would 
let  Maggie  do  none  of  the  work  that  was  heaviest  and  most 
soiling  to  the  hands,  and  was  quite  peevish  when  Maggie 
attempted  to  relieve  her  from  her  grate-brushing  and  scour- 
ing :  "  Let  it  alone,  my  dear ;  your  hands  'ull  get  as  hard  as 
hard,"  she  would  say;  "it's  your  mother's  place  to  do  that. 
I  can't  do  the  sewing  —  my  eyes  fail  me."  And  she  would 
still  brush  and  carefully  tend  Maggie's  hair,  which  she  had 
become  reconciled  to,  in  spite  of  its  refusal  to  curl,  now  it 
was  so  long  and  massy.  Maggie  was  not  her  pet  child,  and, 
in  general,  would  have  been  much  better  if  she  had  been 
quite  different ;  yet  the  womanly  heart,  so  bruised  in  its 
small  personal  desires,  found  a  future  to  rest  on  in  the  life 
of  this  young  thing,  and  the  mother  pleased  herself  with 
wearing  out  her  own  hands  to  save  the  hands  that  had  so 
much  more  life  in  them. 

But  the  constant  presence  of  her  mother's  regretful  bewil- 
derment was  less  painful  to  Maggie  than  that  of  her  father's 
sullen,  incommunicative  depression.  As  long  as  the  paralysis 
was  upon  him,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  might  always  be  in  a 
childlike  condition  of  dependence,  —  as  long  as  he  was  still 
only  half  awakened  to  his  trouble,  —  Maggie  had  felt  the  strong 
tide  of  pitying  love  almost  as  an  inspiration,  a  new  power, 
that  would  make  the  most  difficult  life  easy  for  his  sake  ;  but 
now,  instead  of  childlike  dependence,  there  had  come  a  taci- 
turn, hard  concentration  of  purpose,  in  strange  contrast  with 
his  old  vehement  communicativeness  and  high  spirit ;  and 
this  lasted  from  day  to  day,  and  from  week  to  week,  the  dull 
eye  never  brightening  with  any  eagerness  or  any  joy.  It  is 
something  cruelly  incomprehensible  to  youthful  natures,  this 
sombre  sameness  in  middle-aged  and  elderly  people,  whose 
life  has  resulted  in  disappointment  and  discontent,  to  whose 
faces  a  smile  becomes  so  strange  that  the  sad  lines  all  about 
the  lips  and  brow  seem  to  take  no  notice  of  it,  and  it  hurries 
away  again  for  want  of  a  welcome.  "Why  will  they  not 
kindle  up  and  be  glad  sometimes  ?  "  thinks  young  elasticity. 
"  It  would  be  so  easy  if  they  only  liked  to  do  it."  And  these 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  255 

leaden  clouds  that  never  part  are  apt  to  create  impatience 
even  in  the  filial  affection  that  streams  forth  in  nothing  but 
tenderness  and  pity  in  the  time  of  more  obvious  affliction. 

Mr.  Tulliver  lingered  nowhere  away  from  home ;  he  hurried 
away  from  market,  he  refused  all  invitations  to  stay  and  chat, 
as  in  old  times,  in  the  houses  where  he  called  on  business. 
He  could  not  be  reconciled  with  his  lot.  There  was  no  atti- 
tude in  which  his  pride  did  not  fsel  its  bruises;  and  in  all 
behaviour  towards  him,  whether  kind  or  cold,  he  detected 
an  allusion  to  the  change  in  his  circumstances.  Even  the 
days  on  which  Wakem  came  to  ride  round  the  land  and 
inquire  into  the  business  were  not  so  black  to  him  as  those 
market-days  on  which  he  had  met  several  creditors  who  had 
accepted  a  composition  from  him.  To  save  something  towards 
the  repayment  of  those  creditors  was  the  object  towards  which 
he  was  now  bending  all  his  thoughts  and  efforts  ;  and  under 
the  influence  of  this  all-compelling  demand  of  his  nature,  the 
somewhat  profuse  man,  who  hated  to  be  stinted  or  to  stint 
any  one  else  in  his  own  house,  was  gradually  metamorphosed 
into  the  keen-eyed  grudger  of  morsels.  Mrs.  Tulliver  could 
noj  economise  enough  to  satisfy  him,  in  their  food  and  firing  ; 
and  he  would  eat  nothing  himself  but  what  was  of  the  coarsest 
quality.  Tom,  though  depressed  and  strongly  repelled  by  his 
father's  sullenness,  and  the  dreariness  of  home,  entered  thor- 
oughly into  his  father's  feelings  about  paying  the  creditors; 
and  the  poor  lad  brought  his  first  quarter's  money,  with  a 
delicious  sense  of  achievement,  and  gave  it  to  his  father 
to  put  into  the  tin  box  which  held  the  savings.  The  little 
store  of  sovereigns  in  the  tin  box  seemed  to  be  the  only  sight 
that  brought  a  faint  beam  of  pleasure  into  the  miller's  eyes, 
— faint  and  transient,  for  it  was  soon  dispelled  by  the  thought 
that  the  time  would  be  long  —  perhaps  longer  than  his  life, 
—  before  the  narrow  savings  could  remove  the  hateful  incubus 
of  debt.  A  deficit  of  more  than  five  hundred  pounds,  with 
the  accumulating  interest,  seemed  a  deep  pit  to  fill  with 
the  savings  from  thirty  shillings  a-week,  even  when  Tom's 
probable  savings  were  to  be  added.  On  this  one  point  there 
was  entire  community  of  feeling  in  the  four  widely  differing 
beings  who  sat  round  the  dying  fire  of  sticks,  which  made  a 
cheap  warmth  for  them  on  the  verge  of  bed-time.  Mrs.  Tulli- 
ver carried  the  proud  integrity  of  the  Dodsons  in  her  blood, 
and  had  been  brought  up  to  think  that  to  wrong  people  of 
their  money,  which  was  another  phrase  for  debt,  was  a  sort  of 
moral  pillory ;  it  would  have  been  wickedness,  to  her  mind,  to 


256  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

have  run  counter  to  her  husband's  desire  to  "  do  the  right  thing," 
and  retrieve  his  name.  She  had  a  confused,  dreamy  notion 
that,  it'  the  creditors  were  all  paid,  her  plate  and  linen  ought 
to  come  back  to  her;  but  she  had  an  inbred  perception  that 
while  people  owed  money  they  were  unable  to  pay,  they 
could  n't  rightly  call  anything  their  own.  She  murmured 
a  little  that  Mr.  Tulliver  so  peremptorily  refused  to  receive 
anything  in  repayment  from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moss  ;  but  to  all 
his  requirements  of  household  economy  she  was  submissive  to 
the  point  of  denying  herself  the  cheapest  indulgences  of  mere 
flavour;  her  only  rebellion  was  to  smuggle  into  the  kitchen 
something  that  would  make  rather  a  better  supper  than  usual 
for  Tom. 

These  narrow  notions  about  debt,  held  by  the  old-fashioned 
Tullivers,  may  perhaps  excite  a  smile  on  the  faces  of  many 
readers  in  these  days  of  wide  commercial  views  and  wide 
philosophy,  according  to  which  everything  rights  itself  with- 
out any  trouble  of  ours.  The  fact  that  my  tradesman  is  out  of 
pocket  by  me  is  to  be  looked  at  through  the  serene  certainty 
that  somebody  else's  tradesman  is  in  pocket  by  somebody 
else;  and  since  there  must  be  bad  debts  in  the  world,  why, 
it  is  mere  egoism  not  to  like  that  we  in  particular  should 
make  them  instead  of  our  fellow-citizens.  I  am  telling  the 
history  of  very  simple  people,  who  had  never  had  any  illumi- 
nating doubts  as  to  personal  integrity  and  honour. 

Under  all  this  grim  melancholy  and  narrowing  concentra- 
tion of  desire,  Mr.  Tulliver  retained  the  feeling  towards 
his  "  little  wench "  which  made  her  presence  a  need  to  him, 
though  it  would  not  suffice  to  cheer  him.  She  was  still 
the  desire  of  his  eyes ;  but  the  sweet  spring  of  fatherly  love 
was  now  mingled  with  bitterness,  like  everything  else.  When 
Maggie  laid  down  her  work  at  night,  it  was  her  habit  to  get 
a  low  stool  and  sit  by  her  father's  knee,  leaning  her  cheek 
against  it.  How  she  wished  he  would  stroke  her  head,  or 
give  some  sign  that  he  was  soothed  by  the  sense  that  he 
had  a  daughter  who  loved  him !  But  now  she  got  no  answer 
to  her  little  caresses,  either  from  her  father  or  from  Tom,  — 
the  two  idols  of  her  life.  Tom  was  weary  and  abstracted 
in  the  short  intervals  when  he  was  at  home,  and  her  father 
was  bitterly  preoccupied  with  the  thought  that  the  girl  was 
growing  up,  was  shooting  up  into  a  woman;  and  how  was 
she  to  do  well  in  life  ?  She  had  a  poor  chance  for  marrying, 
down  in  the  world  as  they  were.  And  he  hated  the  thought 
of  her  marrying  poorly,  as  her  aunt  Gritty  had  done;  that 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  257 

would  be  a  thing  to  make  him  turn  in  his  grave,  —  the  little 
wench  so  pulled  down  by  children  and  toil,  as  her  aunt  Moss 
was.  When  uncultured  minds,  confined  to  a  narrow  range 
of  personal  experience,  are  under  the  pressure  of  continued 
misfortune,  their  inward  life  is  apt  to  become  a  perpetually 
repeated  round  of  sad  and  bitter  thoughts  ;  the  same  words, 
the  same  scenes,  are  revolved  over  and  over  again,  the  same 
mood  accompanies  them  ;  the  end  of  the  year  finds  them 
as  much  what  they  were  at  the  beginning  as  if  they  were 
machines  set  to  a  recurrent  series  of  movements. 

The  sameness  of  the  days  was  broken  by  few  visitors. 
Uncles  and  aunts  paid  only  short  visits  now;  of  course,  they 
could  not  stay  to  meals,  and  the  constraint  caused  by  Mr. 
Tulliver's  savage  silence,  which  seemed  to  add  to  the  hollow 
resonance  of  the  bare,  uncarpeted  room  when  the  aunts  were 
talking,  heightened  the  unpleasantness  of  these  family  visits 
on  all  sides,  and  tended  to  make  them  rare.  As  for  other 
acquaintances,  there  is  a  chill  air  surrounding  those  who 
are  down  in  the  world,  and  people  are  glad  to  get  away 
from  them,  as  from  a  cold  room  ;  human  beings,  mere  men 
and  women,  without  furniture,  without  anything  to  offer  you, 
who  have  ceased  to  count  as  anybody,  present  an  embar- 
rassing negation  of  reasons  for  wishing  to  see  them,  or  of 
subjects  on  which  to  converse  with  them.  At  that  distant 
day,  there  was  a  dreary  isolation  in  the  civilised  Christian 
society  of  these  realms  for  families  that  had  dropped  below 
their  original  level,  unless  they  belonged  to  a  sectarian  church, 
which  gets  some  warmth  of  brotherhood  by  walling  in  the 
sacred  fire. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A   VOICE    FROM    THE    PAST. 

OXE  afternoon,  when  the  chestnuts  were  coming  into  flower, 
Maggie  had  brought  her  chair  outside  the  front  door,  and  was 
seated  there  with  a  book  on  her  knees.  Her  dark  eyes  had 
wandered  from  the  book,  but  they  did  not  seem  to  be  enjoying 
the  sunshine  which  pierced  the  screen  of  jasmine  on  the  pro- 
jecting porch  at  her  right,  and  threw  leafy  shadows  on  her 
pale  round  cheek;  they  seemed  rather  to  be  searching  for 

II 


258  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

something  that  was  not  disclosed  by  the  sunshine.  It  had 
been  a  more  miserable  day  than  usual ;  her  father,  after  a 
visit  of  Wakem's,  had  had  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  in  which 
for  some  trifling  fault  he  had  beaten  the  boy  who  served  in 
the  mill.  Once  before,  since  his  illness,  he  had  had  a  similar 
paroxysm,  in  which  he  had  beaten  his  horse,  and  the  scene • 
had  left  a  lasting  terror  in  Maggie's  mind.  The  thought  had 
risen,  that  some  time  or  other  he  might  beat  her  mother 
if  she  happened  to  speak  in  her  feeble  way  at  the  wrong 
moment.  The  keenest  of  all  dread  with  her  was  lest  her 
father  should  add  to  his  present  misfortune  the  wretchedness 
of  doing  something  irretrievably  disgraceful.  The  battered 
school-book  of  Tom's  which  she  held  on  her  knees  could 
give  her  no  fortitude  under  the  pressure  of  that  dread ;  and 
again  and  again  her  eyes  had  filled  with  tears,  as  they 
wandered  vaguely,  seeing  neither  the  chestnut-trees,  nor  the 
distant  horizon,  but  only  future  scenes  of  home-sorrow. 

Suddenly  she  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  the  opening  gate 
and  of  footsteps  on  the  gravel.  It  was  not  Tom  who  was  enter- 
ing, but  a  man  in  a  sealskin  cap  and  a  blue  plush  waistcoat, 
carrying  a  pack  on  his  back,  and  followed  closely  by  a  bull- 
terrier  of  brindled  coat  and  defiant  aspect. 

"  Oh,  Bob,  it 's  you  ! "  said  Maggie,  starting  up  with  a  smile 
of  pleased  recognition,  for  there  had  been  no  abundance  of 
kind  acts  to  efface  the  recollection  of  Bob's  generosity ;  "  I  'm 
so  glad  to  see  you." 

"Thank  you,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  lifting  his  cap  and  showing 
a  delighted  face,  but  immediately  relieving  himself  of  some 
accompanying  embarrassment  by  looking  down  at  his  dog,  and 
saying  in  a  tone  of  disgust,  "  Get  out  wi'  you,  you  thunderin'* 
sawney ! " 

"  My  brother  is  not  at  home  yet,  Bob,"  said  Maggie ;  "  he  is 
always  at  St.  Ogg's  in  the  daytime." 

"Well,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  "I  should  be  glad  to  see  Mr. 
Tom,  but  that  is  n't  just  what  I  'm  come  for,  —  look  here  ! " 

Bob  was  in  the  act  of  depositing  his  pack  on  the  door-step, 
and  with  it  a  row  of  small  books  fastened  together  with  string. 
Apparently,  however,  they  were  not  the  object  to  which  he 
wished  to  call  Maggie's  attention,  but  rather  something  which 
he  had  carried  under  his  arm,  wrapped  in  a  red  handkerchief. 

"  See  here ! "  he  said  again,  laying  the  red  parcel  on  the 
others  and  unfolding  it ;  "  you  won't  think  I  'm  a-makin'  too 
free,  Miss,  I  hope,  but  I  lighted  on  these  books,  and  I  thought 
they  might  make  up  to  you  a  bit  for  them  as  you  've  lost ;  for 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  259 

I  beared  you  speak  o'  picturs,  —  an'  as  for  picturs,  look 
here !  " 

The  opening  of  the  red  handkerchief  had  disclosed  a  su- 
perannuated "  Keepsake "  and  six  or  seven  numbers  of  a 
"  Portrait  Gallery,"  in  royal  octavo ;  and  the  emphatic  re- 
quest to  look  referred  to  a  portrait  of  George  the  Fourth 
in  all  the  majesty  of  his  depressed  cranium  and  voluminous 
neckcloth. 

"  There 's  all  sorts  o'  genelmen  here,"  Bob  went  on,  turn- 
Ing  over  the  leaves  with  some  excitement,  "wi'  all  sorts  o' 
noses,  —  an'  some  bald  an'  some  wi'  wigs,  —  Parlament  genel- 
men, I  reckon.  An'  here,"  he  added,  opening  the  "  Keep- 
sake," —  "  here 's  ladies  for  you,  some  wi'  curly  hair  and  some 
wi'  smooth,  an'  some  a-smiling  wi'  their  heads  o'  one  side,  an' 
some  as  if  they  was  goin'  to  cry,  —  look  here,  —  a-sittin'  on  the 
ground  out  o'  door,  dressed  like  the  ladies  I  'n  seen  get  out  o' 
the  carriages  at  the  balls  in  th'  Old  Hall  there.  My  eyes  !  I 
wonder  what,  the  chaps  wear  as  go  a-courtin'  'em  !  I  sot  up 
till  the  clock  was  gone  twelve  last  night,  a-lookin'  at  'em,  —  I 
did,  —  till  they  stared  at  me  out  o'  the  picturs  as  if  they  'd 
know  when  I  spoke  to  'em.  But,  lors  !  I  should  n't  know  what 
to  say  to  'em.  They  '11  be  more  fittin'  company  for  you,  Miss  ; 
and  the  man  at  the  book-stall,  he  said  they  banged  iverything 
for  picturs ;  he  said  they  was  a  fust-rate  article." 

"  And  you  've  bought  them  for  me,  Bob  ? "  said  Maggie, 
deeply  touched  by  this  simple  kindness.  "How  very,  very 
good  of  you !  But  I  'm  afraid  you  gave  a  great  deal  of  money 
for  them." 

"  Not  me  ! "  said  Bob.  "  I  'd  ha'  gev  three  times  the  money 
if  they  '11  make  up  to  you  a  bit  for  them  as  was  sold  away 
from  you,  Miss.  For  I  'n  niver  forgot  how  you  looked  when 
you  fretted  about  the  books  bein'  gone ;  it 's  stuck  by  me  as  if 
it  was  a  pictur  hingin'  before  me.  An'  when  I  see'd  the 
book  open  upo'  the  stall,  wi'  the  lady  lookin'  out  of  it  wi' 
eyes  a  bit  like  your'n  when  you  was  frettin',  —  you'll 
excuse  my  takin'  the  liberty,  Miss,  —  I  thought  I'd  make 
free  to  buy  it  for  you,  an'  then  I  bought  the  books  full 
o'  genelmen  to  match;  an'  then" — here  Bob  took  up  the 
small  stringed  packet  of  books  —  "I  thought  you  might  like  a 
bit  more  print  as  well  as  the  picturs,  an'  I  got  these  for  a  say- 
so,  —  they  're  cram-full  o'  print,  an'  I  thought  they  'd  do  no 
harm  comin'  along  wi'  these  bettermost  books.  An'  I  hope 
yoii  won't  say  me  nay,  an'  tell  me  as  you  won't  have  'em,  like 
Mr.  Tom  did  wi'  the  suvreigns." 


260  THE   MILL    UN    THE   FLOSS. 

"  No,  indeed,  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  "  T  'in  very  thankful  to 
you  for  thinking  of  me,  and  being  so  good  to  me  and  Tom.  I 
don't  think  any  one  ever  did  such  a  kind  thing  lor  me  before. 
I  have  n't  many  friends  who  care  for  me." 

"  Hev  a  dog,  Miss !  —  they  're  better  friends  nor  any 
Christian,"  said  Bob,  laying  down  his  pack  again,  which  he 
had  taken  up  with  the  intention  of  hurrying  away ;  for  he 
felt  considerable  shyness  in  talking  to  a  young  lass  like  Mag- 
gie, though,  as  he  usually  said  of  himself,  "his  tongue  over- 
run him"  when  he  began  to  speak.  "I  can't  give  you  .Mumps, 
'cause  he'd  break  his  heart  to  go  away  from  me  — eh,  Mumps, 
what  do  you  say,  you  riff-raff  ? "  (Mumps  declined  to  ex- 
press himself  more  diffusely  than  by  a  single  afurmative 
movement  of  his  tail.)  "  But  I  'd  get  you  a  pup,  Miss,  an' 
welcome." 

"  No,  thank  you,  Bob.  We  have  a  yard  dog,  and  I  may  n't 
keep  a  dog  of  my  own." 

"Eh,  that 's  a  pity ;  else  there 's  a  pup,  —  if  you  did  n't  mind 
about  it  not  being  thorough-bred ;  its  mother  acts  in  the  Punch 
show,  —  an  uncommon  sensible  bitch;  she  means  more  sense 
wi'  her  bark  nor  half  the  chaps  can  put  into  their  talk  from 
breakfast  to  sundown.  There 's  one  chap  carries  pots,  —  a 
poor,  low  trade  as  any  on  the  road,  —  he  says,  '  Why,  Toby 's 
nought  but  a  mongrel ;  there 's  nought  to  look  at  in  her.'  But 
I  says  to  him,  '  Why,  what  are  you  yoursen  but  a  mongrel  ? 
There  was  n't  much  pickin'  o'  your  feyther  an'  mother,  to  look 
at  you.'  Not  but  what  I  like  a  bit  o'  breed  myself,  but  I  can't 
abide  to  see  one  cur  grinnin'  at  another.  I  wish  you  good- 
evenin',  Miss,"  added  Bob,  abruptly  taking  up  his  pack  agnin, 
under  the  consciousness  that  his  tongue  was  acting  in  an  undis- 
ciplined manner. 

"Won't  you  come  in  the  evening  some  time,  and  see  my 
brother,  Bob  ?  "  said  Maggie. 

"Yes,  Miss,  thank  you  —  another  time.  You'll  give  my 
duty  to  him,  if  you  please.  Eh,  he 's  a  fine  growed  chap,  Mr. 
Tom  is ;  he  took  to  growin'  i'  the  legs,  an'  /  did  n't." 

The  pack  was  down  again,  now,  the  hook  of  the  stick 
having  somehow  gone  wrong. 

"  You  don't  call  Mumps  a  cur,  I  suppose  ? "  said  Maggie, 
divining  that  any  interest  she  showed  in  Mumps  would  be 
gratifying  to  his  master. 

"  No,  Miss,  a  fine  way  off  that,"  said  Bob,  with  a  pitying 
smile ;  "  Mumps  is  as  fine  a  cross  as  you  '11  see  anywhere 
along  the  Floss,  an'  I  'n  been  up  it  wi'  the  barge  times  enow. 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  261 

Why,  the  gentry  stops  to  look  at  him ;  but  you  won't  catch 
Mumps  a-looking  at  the  gentry  much,  —  he  minds  his  own 
business,  he  does." 

The  expression  of  Mumps's  face,  which  seemed  to  be  toler- 
ating the  superfluous  existence  of  objects  in  general,  was 
strongly  confirmatory  of  this  high  praise. 

"  He  looks  dreadfully  surly,"  said  Maggie.  "  Would  he  let 
me  pat  him  ?  " 

"  Ay,  that  would  he,  and  thank  you.  He  knows  his  com- 
pany, Mumps  does.  He  is  n't  a  dog  as  'ull  be  caught  wi'  gin- 
gerbread ;  he  'd  smell  a  thief  a  good  deal  stronger  nor  the 
gingerbread,  he  would.  Lors,  I  talk  to  him  by  th'  hour 
together,  when  I  'in  walking  i'  lone  places,  and  if  I  'n  done  a 
bit  o'  mischief,  I  allays  tell  him.  I  'n  got  no  secrets  but 
what  Mumps  knows  'em.  He  knows  about  my  big  thumb, 
he  does." 

"  Your  big  thumb  —  what 's  that,  Bob  ?  "  said  Maggie. 

"  That 's  what  it  is,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  quickly,  exhibiting  a 
singularly  broad  specimen  of  that  difference  between  the  man 
and  the  monkey.  "  It  tells  i'  measuring  out  the  flannel,  you 
see.  I  carry  flannel,  'cause  it's  light  for  my  pack,  an'  it's 
dear  stuff,  you  see,  so  a  big  thumb  tells.  I  clap  my  thumb  at 
the  end  o'  the  yard  and  cut  o'  the  hither  side  of  it,  and  the 
old  women  are  n't  up  to 't." 

"  But,  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  looking  serious,  "  that 's  cheat- 
ing; I  don't  like  to  hear  you  say  that." 

"  Don't  you,  Miss  ?  "  said  Bob,  regretfully.  "  Then  I  'm 
sorry  I  said  it.  But  I  'm  so  used  to  talking  to  Mumps,  an'  he 
does  n't  mind  a  bit  o'  cheating,  when  it 's  them  skinflint  women, 
as  haggle  an'  haggle,  an'  'ud  like  to  get  their  flannel  for 
nothing,  an'  'ud  niver  ask  theirselves  how  I  got  my  dinner  out 
on't.  I  niver  cheat  anybody  as  doesn't  want  to  cheat  me, 
Miss,  —  lors,  I  'm  a  honest  chap,  I  am ;  only  I  must  hev  a  bit 
o'  sport,  an'  now  I  don't  go  wi'  th'  ferrets,  I  'n  got  no  varmint 
to  come  over  but  them  haggling  women.  I  wish  you  good- 
evening,  Miss." 

"  Good-bye,  Bob.  Thank  you  very  much  for  bringing  me 
the  books.  And  come  again  to  see  Tom." 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  moving  on  a  few  steps  ;  then  turn- 
ing half  round  he  said,  "I'll  leave  off  that  trick  wi'  my  big 
thumb,  if  you  don't  think  well  on  me  for  it,  Miss ;  but  it  'ud 
be  a  pity,  it  would.  I  could  n't  find  another  trick  so  good,  —  an' 
what  'ud  be  the  use  o'  havin'  a  big  thumb  ?  It  might  as  well 
ha'  been  narrow." 


•262  THE  MILL   ON   Till':    f-'LOSS. 

Maggie,  thus  exalted  into  Bob's  directing  Madonna,  laughed 
in  spite  of  herself;  at  which  her  worshipper's  blue  eyes 
twinkled  too,  and  under  these  favouring  auspices  he  touched 
his  cap  and  walked  away. 

The  days  of  chivalry  are  not  gone,  notwithstanding  Burke's 
grand  dirge  over  them ;  they  live  still  in  that  far-off  worship 
paid  by  many  a  youth  and  man  to  the  woman  of  whom  lie 
never  dreams  that  he  shall  touch  so  much  as  her  little  fin^-r 
or  the  hem  of  her  robe.  Bob,  with  the  pack  on  his  back,  had 
as  respectful  an  adoration  for  this  dark-eyed  maiden  as  if  he- 
had  been  a  knight  in  armour  calling  aloud  on  her  name  as  he 
pricked  on  to  the  fight. 

That  gleam  of  merriment  soon  died  away  from  Maggie's 
face,  and  perhaps  only  made  the  returning  gloom  deeper  by 
contrast.  She  was  too  dispirited  even  to  like  answering  ques- 
tions about  Bob's  present  of  books,  and  she  carried  them  away 
to  her  bedroom,  laying  them  down  there  and  seating  herself 
on  her  one  stool,  without  caring  to  look  at  them  just  yet. 
She  leaned  her  cheek  against  the  window-frame,  and  thought 
that  the  light-hearted  Bob  had  a  lot  much  happier  than 
hers. 

Maggie's  sense  of  loneliness,  and  utter  privation  of  joy,  had 
deepened  with  the  brightness  of  advancing  spring.  All  the 
favourite  outdoor  nooks  about  home,  which  seemed  to  have 
done  their  part  with  her  parents  in  nurturing  and  cherishing 
her,  were  now  mixed  up  with  the  home-sadness,  and  gathered 
no  smile  from  the  sunshine.  Every  affection,  every  delight, 
the  poor  child  had  had,  was  like  an  aching  nerve  to  her. 
There  was  no  music  for  her  any  more,  —  no  piano,  no  harmo- 
nised voices,  no  delicious  stringed  instruments,  with  their  pas- 
sionate cries  of  imprisoned  spirits  sending  a  strange  vibration 
through  her  frame.  And  of  all  her  school-life  there  was  nothing 
left  her  now  but  her  little  collection  of  school-books,  which  she 
turned  over  with  a  sickening  sense  that  she  knew  them  all,  and 
they  were  all  barren  of  comfort.  Even  at  school  she  had  often 
wished  for  books  with  more  in  them ;  everything  she  learned 
there  seemed  like  the  ends  of  long  threads  that  snapped  im- 
mediately. And  now  —  without  the  indirect  charm  of  school- 
emulation  —  Telemaque  was  mere  bran ;  so  were  the  hard, 
dry  questions  on  Christian  Doctrine ;  there  was  no  flavour  in 
them,  no  strength.  Sometimes  Maggie  thought  she  could 
have  been  contented  with  absorbing  fancies ;  if  she  could 
have  had  all  Scott's  novels  and  all  Byron's  poems !  —  then, 
perhaps,  she  might  have  found  happiness  enough  to  dull  her 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  263 

sensibility  to  her  actual  daily  life.  And  yet  they  were  hardly 
what  she  wanted.  She  could  make  dream-worlds  of  her  own, 
but  no  dream-world  would  satisfy  her  now.  She  wanted  some 
explanation  of  this  hard,  real  life,  —  the  unhappy -looking 
father,  seated  at  the  dull  breakfast-table ;  the  childish,  bewil- 
dered mother ;  the  little  sordid  tasks  that  tilled  the  hours,  or 
the  more  oppressive  emptiness  of  weary,  joyless  leisure ;  the 
need  of  some  tender,  demonstrative  love ;  the  cruel  sense  that 
Tom  did  n't  mind  what  she  thought  or  felt,  and  that  they  were 
no  longer  playfellows  together  ;  the  privation  of  all  pleasant 
things  that  had  come  to  her  more  than  to  others,  —  she  wanted 
some  key  that  would  enable  her  to  understand,  and,  in  under- 
standing, endure,  the  heavy  weight  that  had  fallen  on  her 
young  heart.  If  she  had  been  taught  "real  learning  and, 
wisdom,  such  as  great  men  knew,"  she  thought  she  should 
have  held  the  secrets  of  life ;  if  she  had  only  books,  that  she 
might  learn  for  herself  what  wise  men  knew !  Saints  and 
martyrs  had  never  interested  Maggie  so  much  as  sages  and 
poets.  She  knew  little  of  saints  and  martyrs,  and  had  gath- 
ered, as  a  general  result  of  her  teaching,  that  they  were  a 
temporary  provision  against  the  spread  of  Catholicism,  and 
had  all  died  at  Smithfield. 

In  one  of  these  meditations  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  had 
forgotten  Tom's  school-books,  which  had  been  sent  home  in 
his  trunk.  But  she  found  the  stock  unaccountably  shrunk 
down  to  the  few  old  ones  which  had  been  well  thumbed,  —  the 
Latin  Dictionary  and  Grammar,  a  Delectus,  a  torn  Eutropius, 
the  well-worn  Virgil,  Aldrich's  Logic,  and  the  exasperating 
Euclid.  Still,  Latin,  Euclid,  and  Logic  would  surely  be  a 
considerable  step  in  masculine  wisdom,  —  in  that  knowledge 
which  made  men  contented,  and  even  glad  to  live.  Not  that 
the  yearning  for  effectual  wisdom  was  quite  unmixed ;  a  cer- 
tain mirage  would  now  and  then  rise  on  the  desert  of  the 
future,  in  which  she  seemed  to  see  herself  honoured  for  her 
surprising  attainments.  And  so  the  poor  child,  with  her  soul's 
hunger  and  her  illusions  of  self-flattery,  began  to  nibble  at  this 
thick-rinded  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  filling  her  vacant 
hours  with  Latin,  geometry,  and  the  forms  of  the  syllogism, 
and  feeling  a  gleam  of  triumph  now  and  then  that  her  under- 
standing was  quite  equal  to  these  peculiarly  masculine  studies. 
Foi  a  week  or  two  she  went  on  resolutely  enough,  though  with 
an  occasional  sinking  of  heart,  as  if  she  had  set  out  toward 
the  Promised  Land  alone,  and  found  it  a  thirsty,  trackless, 
uncertain  journey.  In  the  severity  of  her  early  resolution,  she 


264  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOS*. 

would  take  Aldrich  out  into  the  fields,  and  then  look  off  her 
book  towards  the  sky,  where  the  lark  was  twinkling,  or  to  the 
reeds  and  bushes  by  the  river,  from  which  the  water-fowl 
rustled  forth  on  its  anxious,  awkward  flight,  —  with  a  startled 
sense  that  the  relation  between  Aldrich  and  this  living  world 
was  extremely  remote  for  her.  The  discouragement  deepened 
as  the  days  went  on,  and  the  eager  heart  gained  faster  and 
faster  on  the  patient  mind.  Somehow,  when  she  sat  at  the 
window  with  her  book,  her  eyes  would  fix  themselves  blankly 
on  the  outdoor  sunshine ;  then  they  would  fill  with  tears,  and 
sometimes,  if  her  mother  was  not  in  the  room,  the  studies 
would  all  end  in  sobbing.  She  rebelled  against  her  lot,  she 
fainted  under  its  loneliness,  and  fits  even  of  anger  and  hatred 
towards  her  father  and  mother,  who  were  so  unlike  what  she 
would  have  them  to  be ;  towards  Tom,  who  checked  her,  and 
met  her  thought  or  feeling  always  by  some  thwarting  differ- 
ence,—  would  flow  out  over  her  affections  and  conscience  like 
a  lava  stream,  and  frighten  her  with  a  sense  that  it  was  not 
difficult  for  her  to  become  a  demon.  Then  her  brain  would  he 
busy  with  wild  romances  of  a  flight  from  home  in  search  of 
something  less  sordid  and  dreary ;  she  would  go  to  some  great 
man  —  Walter  Scott,  perhaps  —  and  tell  him  how  wretched 
and  how  clever  she  was,  and  he  would  surely  do  something  for 
her.  But,  in  the  middle  of  her  vision,  her  father  would  per- 
haps enter  the  room  for  the  evening,  and,  surprised  that  she 
sat  still  without  noticing  him,  would  say  coniplainingly, 
"  Come,  am  I  to  fetch  my  slippers  myself  ? "  The  voice 
pierced  through  Maggie  like  a  sword ;  there  was  another  sad- 
ness besides  her  own,  and  she  had  been  thinking  of  turning 
her  back  on  it  and  forsaking  it. 

This  afternoon,  the  sight  of  Bob's  cheerful  freckled  face 
had  given  her  discontent  a  new  direction.  She  thought  it  was 
part  of  the  hardship  of  her  life  that  there  was  laid  upon  her 
the  burthen  of  larger  wants  than  others  seemed  to  feel,  —  that 
Bhe  had  to  endure  this  wide,  hopeless  yearning  for  that  some- 
thing, whatever  it  was,  that  was  greatest  and  best  on  this  earth. 
She  wished  she  could  have  been  like  Bob,  with  his  easily  satis- 
fied ignorance,  or  like  Tom,  who  had  something  to  do  on  which 
he  could  fix  his  mind  with  a  steady  purpose,  and  disregard 
everything  else.  Poor  child !  as  she  leaned  her  head  against 
the  window-frame,  with  her  hands  clasped  tighter  and  tighter, 
and  her  foot  beating  the  ground,  she  was  as  lonely  in  her 
trouble  as  if  she  had  been  the  only  girl  in  the  civilised  world 
01  that  day  who  had  come  out  of  her  school-life  with  a  soul 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  265 

untrained  for  inevitable  struggles,  with  no  other  part  of  her 
inherited  share  in  the  hard-won  treasures  of  thought  which 
generations  of  painful  toil  have  laid  up  for  the  race  of  men, 
than  shreds  and  patches  of  feeble  literature  and  false  history, 
with  much  futile  information  about  Saxon  and  other  kings 
of  doubtful  example,  but  unhappily  quite  without  that  knowl- 
edge of  the  irreversible  laws  within  and  without  her,  which, 
governing  the  habits,  becomes  morality,  and  developing  the 
feelings  of  submission  and  dependence,  becomes  religion,— 
as  lonely  in  her  trouble  as  if  every  other  girl  besides  herself 
had  been  cherished  and  watched  over  by  elder  minds,  not 
forgetful  of  their  own  early  time,  when  need  was  keen  and 
impulse  strong. 

At  last  Maggie's  eyes  glanced  down  on  the  books  that  lay 
on  the  window-shelf,  and  she  half  forsook  her  reverie  to  turn 
over  listlessly  the  leaves  of  the  "  Portrait  Gallery,"  but  she 
soon  pushed  this  aside  to  examine  the  little  row  of  books  tied 
together  with  string.  "  Beauties  of  the  Spectator,"  "  Rasselas," 
"  Economy  of  Human  Life,"  "  Gregory's  Letters,"  —  she  knew 
the  sort  of  matter  that  was  inside  all  these ;  the  "  Christian 
Year,"  —  that  seemed  to  be  a  hymn-book,  and  she  laid  it  down 
again ;  but  Thomas  a  Kemjris  ?  —  the  name  had  come  across 
her  in  her  reading,  and  she  felt  the  satisfaction,  which  every 
one  knows,  of  getting  some  ideas  to  attach  to  a  name  that 
strays  solitary  in  the  memory.  She  took  up  the  little,  old, 
clumsy  book  with  some  curiosity  ;  it  had  the  corners  turned 
down  in  many  places,  and  some  hand,  now  for  ever  quiet, 
had  made  at  certain  passages  strong  pen-and-ink  marks,  long 
since  browned  by  time.  Maggie  turned  from  leaf  to  leaf,  and 
read  where  the  quiet  hand  pointed :  "  Know  that  the  love  of 
thyself  doth  hurt  thee  more  than  anything  in  the  world.  .  .  . 
If  thou  seekest  this  or  that,  and  wouldst  be  here  or  there  to 
enjoy  thy  own  will  and  pleasure,  thou  shalt  never  be  quiet  nor 
free  from  care ;  for  in  everything  somewhat  will  be  wanting, 
and  in  every  place  there  will  be  some  that  will  cross  thee. 
.  .  .  Both  above  and  below,  which  way  soever  thou  dost  turn 
thee,  everywhere  thou  shalt  find  the  Cross  ;  and  everywhere  of 
necessity  thou  must  have  patience,  if  thou  wilt  have  inward 
peace,  and  enjoy  an  everlasting  crown.  ...  If  thou  desire  to 
mount  unto  this  height,  thou  must  set  out  courageously,  and 
lay  the  axe  to  the  root,  that  thou  mayest  pluck  up  and  destroy 
that  hidden  inordinate  inclination  to  thyself,  and  unto  all  pri- 
vate and  earthly  good.  On  this  sin,  that  a  man  inordinately 
loveth  himself,  almost  all  dependeth,  whatsoever  is  thoroughly 


266  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

to  be  overcome  ;  which  evil  being  once  overcome  and  subdued, 
there  will  presently  ensue  great  peace  and  tranquillity.  ...  It 
is  but  little  thou  sufferest  in  comparison  of  them  that  have  suf- 
fered so  much,  were  so  strongly  tempted,  so  grievously  afflicted, 
so  many  ways  tried  and  exercised.  Thou  oughtest  therefore 
to  call  to  mind  the  more  heavy  sufferings  of  others,  that  thou 
mayest  the  easier  bear  thy  little  adversities.  And  if  they  seem 

iot  little  unto  thee,  beware  lest  thy  impatience  be  the  cause 
:  hereof.  .  .  .  Blessed  are  those  ears  that  receive  the  whispers 

»f  the  divine  voice,  and  listen  not  to  the  whisperings  of  the 
world.  Blessed  are  those  ears  which  hearken  not  unto  the 
voice  which  soundeth  outwardly,  but  unto  the  Truth,  which 
teacheth  inwardly." 

A  strange  thrill  of  awe  passed  through  Maggie  while  she 
read,  as  if  she  had  been  wakened  in  the  night  by  a  strain  of 
solemn  music,  telling  of  beings  whose  souls  had  been  astir 
while  hers  was  in  stupor.  She  went  on  from  one  brown 
mark  to  another,  where  the  quiet  hand  seemed  to  point, 
hardly  conscious  that  she  was  reading,  seeming  rather  to 
listen  while  a  low  voice  said,  — 

"  Why  dost  thou  here  gaze  about,  since  this  is  not  the  place 
of  thy  rest  ?  In  heaven  ought  to  be  thy  dwelling,  and  all 
earthly  things  are  to  be  looked  on  as  they  forward  thy  journey 
thither.  All  things  pass  away,  and  thou  together  with  them. 
Beware  thou  cleave  not  unto  them,  lest  thou  be  entangled  and 
perish.  ...  If  a  man  should  give  all  his  substance,  yet  it  is 
as  nothing.  And  if  he  should  do  great  penances,  yet  are  they 
but  little.  And  if  he  should  attain  to  all  knowledge,  he  is 
yet  far  off.  And  if  he  should  be  of  great  virtue,  and  very  fer- 
vent devotion,  yet  is  there  much  wanting ;  to  wit,  one  thing, 
which  is  most  necessary  for  him.  What  is  that  ?  That  hav- 
ing left  all,  he  leave  himself,  and  go  wholly  out  of  himself, 
and  retain  nothing  of  self-love.  ...  I  have  often  said  unto 
thee,  and  now  again  I  say  the  same,  Forsake  thyself,  resign 
thyself,  and  thou  shalt  enjoy  much  inward  peace.  .  .  .  Then 
shall  all  vain  imaginations,  evil  perturbations,  and  superfluous 

•ares  fly  away;  then  shall  immoderate  fear  leave  thee,  and 
inordinate  love  shall  die." 

Maggie  drew  a  long  breath  and  pushed  her  heavy  hair  back, 
as  if  to  see  a  sudden  vision  more  clearly.  Here,  then,  was 
a  secret  of  life  that  would  enable  her  to  renounce  all  other 
secrets ;  here  was  a  sublime  height  to  be  reached  without  the 
help  of  outward  things  ;  here  was  insight,  and  strength,  and 
conquest,  to  be  won  by  means  entirely  within  her  own  soul, 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  267 

where  a  supreme  Teacher  was  waiting  to  be  heard.  It  flashed 
through  her  like  the  suddenly  apprehended  solution  of  a  prob- 
lem, that  all  the  miseries  of  her  young  life  had  come  from 
fixing  her  heart  on  her  own  pleasure,  as  if  that  were  the  cen- 
tral necessity  of  the  universe  ;  and  for  the  first  time  she  saw 
the  possibility  of  shifting  the  position  from  which  she  looked 
at  the  gratification  of  her  own  desires,  —  of  taking  her  stand 
out  of  herself,  and  looking  at  her  own  life  as  an  insignificant 
part  of  a  divinely  guided  whole.  She  read  on  and  on  in  the 
old  book,  devouring  eagerly  the  dialogues  with  the  invisible 
Teacher,  the  pattern  of  sorrow,  the  source  of  all  strength ; 
returning  to  it  after  she  had  been  called  away,  and  reading 
till  the  sun  went  down  behind  the  willows.  With  all  the 
hurry  of  an  imagination  that  could  never  rest  in  the  present, 
she  sat  in  the  deepening  twilight  forming  plans  of  self-humil- 
iation and  entire  devotedness  ;  and  in  the  ardour  of  first  dis- 
covery, renunciation  seemed  to  her  the  entrance  into  that 
satisfaction  which  she  had  so  long  been  craving  in  vain. 
She  had  not  perceived  —  how  could  she  until  she  had  lived 
longer  ?  —  the  inmost  truth  of  the  old  monk's  outpourings, 
that  renunciation  remains  sorrow,  though  a  sorrow  borne 
willingly.  Maggie  was  still  panting  for  happiness,  and  was 
in  ecstasy  because  she  had  found  the  key  to  it.  She  knew 
nothing  of  doctrines  and  systems,  of  mysticism  or  quietism ; 
but  this  voice  out  of  the  far-off  middle  ages  was  the  direct 
communication  of  a  human  soul's  belief  and  experience,  and 
came  to  Maggie  as  an  unquestioned  message. 

I  suppose  that  is  the  reason  why  the  small  old-fashioned 
book,  for  which  you  need  only  pay  sixpence  at  a  book-stall, 
works  miracles  to  this  day,  turning  bitter  waters  into  sweet- 
ness ;  while  expensive  sermons  and  treatises,  newly  issued, 
leave  all  things  as  they  were  before.  It  was  written  down 
by  a  hand  that  waited  for  the  heart's  prompting ;  it  is  the 
chronicle  of  a  solitary,  hidden  anguish,  struggle,  trust,  and 
triumph,  not  written  on  velvet  cushions  to  teach  endurance 
to  those  who  are  treading  with  bleeding  feet  on  the  stones. 
And  so  it  remains  to  all  time  a  lasting  record  of  human  needs 
and  human  consolations  ;  the  voice  of  a  brother  who,  ages 
ago,  felt  and  suffered  and  renounced,  —  in  the  cloister,  per- 
haps, with  serge  gown  and  tonsured  head,  with  much  chant- 
ing and  long  fasts,  and  with  a  fashion  of  speech  different  from, 
ours,  —  but  under  the  same  silent  far-off  heavens,  and  with 
the  same  passionate  desires,  the  same  strivings,  the  same 
failures,  the  same  weariness. 


268  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

In  writing  the  history  of  unfashionable  families,  one  is  apt 
to  fall  into  a  tone  of  emphasis  which  is  very  far  from  being 
the  tone  of  good  society,  where  principles  and  beliefs  are  not 
only  of  an  extremely  moderate  kind,  but  are  always  presup- 
posed, no  subjects  being  eligible  but  such  as  can  be  touched 
with  a  light  and  graceful  irony.  But  then  good  society  has 
its  claret  and  its  velvet  carpets,  its  dinner-engagements  six 
weeks  deep,  its  opera  and  its  faery  ball-rooms  ;  rides  off  its 
ennui  on  thorough-bred  horses  ;  lounges  at  the  club ;  has  to 
keep  clear  of  crinoline  vortices ;  gets  its  science  done  by 
Faraday,  and  its  religion  by  the  superior  clergy  who  are  to  be 
met  in  the  best  houses,  —  how  should  it  have  time  or  need  for 
belief  and  emphasis  ?  But  good  society,  floated  on  gossamer 
wings  of  light  irony,  is  of  very  expensive  production ;  requir- 
ing nothing  less  than  a  wide  and  arduous  national  life  con- 
densed in  unfragrant  deafening  factories,  cramping  itself  in 
mines,  sweating  at  furnaces,  grinding,  hammering,  weaving 
under  more  or  less  oppression  of  carbonic  acid,  or  else,  spread 
over  sheepwalks,  and  scattered  in  lonely  houses  and  huts  on  the 
clayey  or  chalky  corn-lands,  where  the  rainy  days  look  dreary. 
This  wide  national  life  is  based  entirely  on  emphasis, — the 
emphasis  of  want,  which  urges  it  into  all  the  activities  neces- 
sary for  the  maintenance  of  good  society  and  light  irony ;  it 
spends  its  heavy  years  often  in  a  chill,  uncarpeted  fashion, 
amidst  family  discord  unsoftened  by  long  corridors.  Under 
such  circumstances,  there  are  many  among  its  myriads  of  souls 
who  have  absolutely  needed  an  emphatic  belief,  life  in  this 
unpleasurable  shape  demanding  some  solution  even  to  unspec- 
ulative  minds, — just  as  you  inquire  into  the  stuffing  of  your 
couch  when  anything  galls  you  there,  whereas  eider-down  and 
perfect  French  springs  excite  no  question.  Some  have  an 
emphatic  belief  in  alcohol,  and  seek  their  ekstasis  or  outside 
standing-ground  in  gin ;  but  the  rest  require  something  that 
good  society  calls  "  enthusiasm,"  —  something  that  will  present 
motives  in  an  entire  absence  of  high  prizes  ;  something  that 
'.Till  give  patience  and  feed  human  love  when  the  limbs  ache 
with  weariness,  and  human  looks  are  hard  upon  us ;  some- 
thing, clearly,  that  lies  outside  personal  desires,  that  includes 
resignation  for  ourselves  and  active  love  for  what  is  not  our- 
selves. Now  and  then  that  sort  of  enthusiasm  finds  a  far- 
echoing  voice  that  comes  from  an  experience  springing  out 
of  the  deepest  need ;  and  it  was  by  being  brought  within  the 
long  lingering  vibrations  of  such  a  voice  that  Maggie,  with 
her  girl's  face  and  unnoted  sorrows,  found  an  effort  and 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  269 

a  hope  that  helped  her  through  years  of  loneliness,  making 
out  a  faith  for  herself  without  the  aid  of  established  authori- 
ties and  appointed  guides ;  for  they  were  not  at  hand,  and 
her  need  was  pressing.  From  what  you  know  of  her,  you 
will  not  be  surprised  that  she  threw  some  exaggeration  and 
wilfulness,  some  pride  and  impetuosity,  even  into  her  self- 
renunciation  ;  her  own  life  was  still  a  drama  for  her,  in  which 
she  demanded  of  herself  that  her  part  should  be  played  with 
intensity.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  she  often  lost  the 
spirit  of  humility  by  being  excessive  in  the  outward  act ;  she 
often  strove  after  too  high  a  flight,  and  came  down  with  her 
poor  little  half-fledged  wings  dabbled  in  the  mud.  For  example, 
she  not  only  determined  to  work  at  plain  sewing,  that  she 
might  contribute  something  towards  the  fund  in  the  tin  box, 
but  she  went,  in  the  first  instance,  in  her  zeal  of  self-mortifi- 
cation, to  ask  for  it  at  a  linen-shop  in  St.  Ogg's,  instead  of 
getting  it  in  a  more  quiet  and  indirect  way ;  and  could  see 
nothing  but  what  was  entirely  wrong  and  unkind,  nay,  perse- 
cuting, in  Tom's  reproof  of  her  for  this  unnecessary  act. 
"  I  don't  like  my  sister  to  do  such  things,"  said  Tom ;  "  I'll 
take  care  that  the  debts  are  paid,  without  your  lowering  your- 
self in  that  way."  Surely  there  was  some  tenderness  and 
bravery  mingled  with  the  worldliness  and  self-assertion  of 
that  little  speech ;  but  Maggie  held  it  as  dross,  overlooking 
the  grains  of  gold,  and  took  Tom's  rebuke  as  one  of  her  out- 
ward crosses.  Tom  was  very  hard  to  her,  she  used  to  think, 
in  her  long  night- watchings,  —  to  her  who  had  always  loved 
him  so  ;  and  then  she  strove  to  be  contented  with  that  hard- 
ness, and  to  require  nothing.  That  is  the  path  we  all  like 
when  we  set  out  on  our  abandonment  of  egoism,  —  the  path 
of  martyrdom  and  endurance,  where  the  palm-branches  grow, 
rather  than  the  steep  highway  of  tolerance,  just  allowance, 
and  self-blame,  where  there  are  no  leafy  honours  to  be 
gathered  and  worn. 

The  old  books,  Virgil,  Euclid,  and  Aldrich  —  that  wrinkled 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  —  had  been  all  laid  by ;  for 
Maggie  had  turned  her  back  on  the  vain  ambition  to  share 
the  thoughts  of  the  wise.  In  her  first  ardour  she  flung 
away  the  books  with  a  sort  of  triumph  that  she  had  risen 
above  the  need  of  them ;  and  if  they  had  been  her  own,  she 
would  have  burned  them,  believing  that  she  would  never 
repent.  She  read  so  eagerly  and  constantly  in  her  three  books, 
the  Bible,  Thomas  k  Kempis,  and  the  "  Christian  Year "  (no 
longer  rejected  as  a  "hymn-book"),  that  they  filled  her  mind 


270  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

with  a  continual  stream  of  rhythmic  memories ;  and  she  was 
too  ardently  learning  to  see  all  nature  and  life  in  the  light 
of  her  new  faith,  to  need  any  other  material  for  her  mind  to 
work  on,  as  she  sat  with  her  well-plied  needle,  making  shirts 
and  other  complicated  stitchings,  falsely  called  "plain,"  —  by 
no  means  plain  to  Maggie,  since  wristband  and  sleeve  and  the 
like  had  a  capability  of  being  sewed  in  wrong  side  outwards 
in  moments  of  mental  wandering. 

Hanging  diligently  over  her  sewing,  Maggie  was  a  sight  any 
one  might  have  been  pleased  to  look  at.  That  new  inward 
life  of  hers,  notwithstanding  some  volcanic  upheavings  of  im- 
prisoned passions,  yet  shone  out  in  her  face  with  a  tender  soft 
light  that  mingled  itself  as  added  loveliness  with  the  gradually 
enriched  colour  and  outline  of  her  blossoming  youth.  Her 
mother  felt  the  change  in  her  with  a  sort  of  puzzled  wonder 
that  Maggie  should  be  "  growing  up  so  good ; "  it  was  amazing 
that  this  once  "  contrairy  "  child  was  become  so  submissive,  so 
backward  to  assert  her  own  will.  Maggie  used  to  look  up 
from  her  work  and  find  her  mother's  eyes  fixed  upon  her; 
they  were  watching  and  waiting  for  the  large  young  glance,  as 
if  her  elder  frame  got  some  needful  warmth  from  it.  The 
mother  was  getting  fond  of  her  tall,  brown  girl,  —  the  only  bit 
of  furniture  now  on  which  she  could  bestow  her  anxiety  and 
pride  ;  and  Maggie,  in  spite  of  her  own  ascetic  wish  to  have  no 
personal  adornment,  was  obliged  to  give  way  to  her  mother 
about  her  hair,  and  submit  to  have  the  abundant  black  locks 
plaited  into  a  coronet  on  the  summit  of  her  head,  after  the 
pitiable  fashion  of  those  antiquated  times. 

"  Let  your  mother  have  that  bit  o'  pleasure,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Tulliver;  "I'd  trouble  enough  with  your  hair  once." 

So  Maggie,  glad  of  anything  that  would  soothe  her  mother, 
and  cheer  their  long  day  together,  consented  to  the  vain  deco- 
ration, and  showed  a  queenly  head  above  her  old  frocks, 
steadily  refusing,  however,  to  look  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
M  rs.  Tulliver  liked  to  call  the  father's  attention  to  Maggie's 
iiair  and  other  unexpected  virtues,  but  he  had  a  brusque  reply 
to  give. 

"I  knew  well  enough  what  she'd  be,  before  now,  —  it's 
nothing  new  to  me.  But  it 's  a  pity  she  is  n't  made  o'  com- 
moner stuff ;  she  '11  be  thrown  away,  I  doubt,  —  there  '11  be 
nobody  to  marry  her  as  is  fit  for  her." 

And  Maggie's  graces  of  mind  and  body  fed  his  gloom.  He 
sat  patiently  enough  while  she  read  him  a  chapter,  or  said 
something  timidly  when  they  were  alone  together  about  trou- 


THE    VALLEY  OF  HUMILIATION.  271 

ble  being  turned  into  a  blessing.  He  took  it  all  as  part  of  his 
daughter's  goodness,  which  made  his  misfortunes  the  sadder  to 
him  because  they  damaged  her  chance  in  life.  In  a  mind 
charged  with  an  eager  purpose  and  an  unsatisfied  vindictive- 
ness,  there  is  no  room  for  new  feelings ;  Mr.  Tulliver  did  not 
want  spiritual  consolation  —  he  wanted  to  shake  off  the  degra- 
dation of  debt,  and  to  have  his  revenge. 


BOOK    Y. 

WHEAT   AND   TARES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN    THE    RED    DEEPS. 

THE  family  sitting-room  was  a  long  room  with  a  window  at 
each  end ;  one  looking  towards  the  croft  and  along  the  Ripple 
to  the  banks  of  the  Floss,  the  other  into  the  mill-yard.  Mag- 
gie was  sitting  with  her  work  against  the  latter  window  when 
she  saw  Mr.  Wakem  entering  the  yard,  as  usual,  on  his  fine 
black  horse  ;  but  not  alone,  as  usual.  Some  one  was  with 
him, — a  figure  in  a  cloak,  on  a  handsome  pony.  Maggie  had 
hardly  time  to  feel  that  it  was  Philip  come  back,  before  tin  y 
were  in  front  of  the  window,  and  he  was  raising  his  hat  to 
her ;  while  his  father,  catching  the  movement  by  a  side-glance, 
looked  sharply  round  at  them  both. 

.Maggie  hurried  away  from  the  window  and  carried  her  work 
up-stairs ;  for  Mr.  Wakem  sometimes  came  in  and  inspected 
the  books,  and  Maggie  felt  that  the  meeting  with  Philip  would 
be  robbed  of  all  pleasure  in  the  presence  of  the  two  fathers. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  she  should  see  him  when  they  could  just 
shake  hands,  and  she  could  tell  him  that  she  remembered  his 
goodness  to  Tom,  and  the  things  he  had  said  to  her  in  the  old 
days,  though  they  could  never  be  friends  any  more.  It  was  not 
at  all  agitating  to  Maggie  to  see  Philip  again  ;  she  retained  her 
childish  gratitude  and  pity  towards  him,  and  remembered  his 
cleverness  ;  and  in  the  early  weeks  of  her  loneliness  she  had 
continually  recalled  the  image  of  him  among  the  people  who 
had  been  kind  to  her  in  life,  often  wishing  she  had  him  for  a 
brother  and  a  teacher,  as  they  had  fancied  it  might  have  been, 
in  their  talk  together.  But  that  sort  of  wishing  had  been 
banished  along  with  other  dreams  that  savoured  of  seeking 
her  own  will ;  and  she  thought,  besides,  that  Philip  might  be 
altered  by  his  life  abroad,  —  he  might  have  become  worldly, 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  273 

and  really  not  care  about  her  saying  anything  to  him  now. 
And  yet  his  face  was  wonderfully  little  altered,  —  it  was 
only  a  larger,  more  manly  copy  of  the  pale,  small-featured 
boy's  face,  with  the  grey  eyes,  and  the  boyish  waving  brown 
hair ;  there  was  the  old  deformity  to  awaken  the  old  pity ;  and 
after  all  her  meditations,  Maggie  felt  that  she  really  should 
like  to  say  a  few  words  to  him.  He  might  still  be  melancholy, 
as  he  always  used  to  be,  and  like  her  to  look  at  him  kindly. 
She  wondered  if  he  remembered  how  he  used  to  like  her  eyes ; 
with  that  thought  Maggie  glanced  towards  the  square  looking- 
glass  which  was  condemned  to  hang  with  its  face  towards  the 
wall,  and  she  half  started  from  her  seat  to  reach  it  down; 
but  she  checked  herself  ard  snatched  up  her  work,  trying 
to  repress  the  rising  wishes  by  forcing  her  memory  to  recall 
snatches  of  hymns,  until  she  saw  Philip  and  his  father  return- 
ing along  the  road,  and  she  could  go  down  again. 

It  was  far  on  in  June  now,  and  Maggie  was  inclined  to 
lengthen  the  daily  walk  which  was  her  one  indulgence ;  but 
this  day  and  the  following  she  was  so  busy  with  work  which 
must  be  finished  that  she  never  went  beyond  the  gate,  and 
satisfied  her  need  of  the  open  air  by  sitting  out  of  doors.  One 
of  her  frequent  walks,  when  she  was  not  obliged  to  go  to  St. 
Ogg's,  was  to  a  spot  that  lay  beyond  what  was  called  the 
"  Hill,  "  —  an  insignificant  rise  of  ground  crowned  by  trees, 
lying  along  the  side  of  the  road  which  ran  by  the  gates  of 
Dorlcote  Mill.  Insignificant  I  call  it,  because  in  height  it  was 
hardly  more  than  a  bank ;  but  there  may  come  moments  when 
Nature  makes  a  mere  bank  a  means  towards  a  fateful  result ; 
and  that  is  why  I  ask  you  to  imagine  this  high  bank  crowned 
with  trees,  making  an  iineven  wall  for  some  quarter  of  a  mile 
along  the  left  side  of  Dorlcote  Mill  and  the  pleasant  fields 
behind  it,  bounded  by  the  murmuring  Ripple.  Just  where 
this  line  of  bank  sloped  down  again  to  the  level,  a  by-road 
turned  off  and  led  to  the  other  side  of  the  rise,  where  it  was 
broken  into  very  capricious  hollows  and  mounds  by  the  work- 
ing of  an  exhausted  stone-quarry,  so  long  exhausted  that 
both  mounds  and  hollows  were  now  clothed  with  brambles  and 
trees,  and  here  and  there  by  a  stretch  of  grass  which  a  few 
sheep  kept  close-nibbled.  In  her  childish  days  Maggie  held 
this  place,  called  the  Red  Deeps,  in  very  great  awe,  and  needed 
all  her  confidence  in  Tom's  bravery  to  reconcile  her  to  an  excur- 
sion thither,  —  visions  of  robbers  and  fierce  animals  haunting 
every  hollow.  But  now  it  had  the  charm  for  her  which  any 
broken  ground,  any  mimic  rock  and  ravine,  have  for  the  eyes 

18 


274  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

that  rest  habitually  on 'the  level;  especially  in  summer,  when 
she  could  sit  on  a  grassy  hollow  under  the  shadow  of  a  branch- 
ing ash,  stooping  aslant  from  the  steep  above  her,  and  listen  to 
the  hum  of  insects,  like  tiniest  bells  on  the  garment  of  Silence, 
or  see  the  sunlight  piercing  the  distant  boughs,  as  if  to  chase 
and  drive  home  the  truant  heavenly  blue  of  the  wild  hyacinths. 
In  this  June  time,  too,  the  dog-roses  were  in  their  glory,  and 
that  was  an  additional  reason  why  Maggie  should  direct  her 
walk  to  the  Red  Deeps,  rather  than  to  any  other  spot,  on  the 
first  day  she  was  free  to  wander  at  her  will,  —  a  pleasure  she 
loved  so  well,  that  sometimes,  in  her  ardours  of  renunciation, 
she  thought  she  ought  to  deny  herself  the  frequent  indulgence 
in  it. 

You  may  see  her  now,  as  she  walks  down  the  favourite  turn- 
ing, and  enters  the  Deeps  by  a  narrow  path  through  a  group 
of  Scotch  firs,  her  tall  figure  and  old  lavender  gown  visible 
through  an  hereditary  black  silk  shawl  of  some  wide-meshed, 
net-like  material ;  and  now  she  is  sure  of  being  unseen,  she 
takes  off  her  bonnet  and  ties  it  over  her  arm.  One  would  cer- 
tainly suppose  her  to  be  farther  on  in  life  than  her  seventeenth 
year,  —  perhaps  because  of  the  slow  resigned  sadness  of  the 
glance,  from  which  all  search  and  unrest  seem  to  have  de- 
parted ;  perhaps  because  her  broad-chested  figure  has  the  mould 
of  early  womanhood.  Youth  and  health  have  withstood  well  the 
involuntary  and  voluntary  hardships  of  her  lot,  and  the  nights 
in  which  she  has  lain  on  the  hard  floor  for  a  penance  have  left 
no  obvious  trace ;  the  eyes  are  liquid,  the  brown  cheek  is  firm 
and  rounded,  the  full  lips  are  red.  With  her  dark  colouring  and 
jet  crown  surmounting  her  tall  figure,  she  seems  to  have  a  sort 
of  kinship  with  the  grand  Scotch  firs,  at  which  she  is  looking 
up  as  if  she  loved  them  well.  Yet  one  has  a  sense  of  uneas- 
iness in  looking  at  her,  —  a  sense  of  opposing  elements,  of 
which  a  fierce  collision  is  imminent ;  surely  there  is  a  hushed 
expression,  such  as  one  often  sees  in  older  faces  under  border- 
less caps,  out  of  keeping  with  the  resistant  youth,  which  one 
expects  to  flash  out  in  a  sudden,  passionate  glance,  that  will 
dissipate  all  the  quietude,  like  a  damp  fire  leaping  out  again 
when  all  seemed  safe. 

But  Maggie  herself  was  not  uneasy  at  this  moment.  She 
was  calmly  enjoying  the  free  air,  while  she  looked  up  at  the 
old  fir-trees,  and  thought  that  those  broken  ends  of  branches 
were  the  records  of  past  storms,  which  had  only  made  the 
red  stems  soar  higher.  But  while  her  eyes  were  still  turned 
upward,  she  became  conscious  of  a  moving  shadow  cast  by 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  275 

the  evening  sun  on  the  grassy  path  before  her,  and  looked 
down  with  a  startled  gesture  to  see  Philip  Wakem,  who 
first  raised  his  hat,  and  then,  blushing  deeply,  came  forward 
to  her  and  put  out  his  hand.  Maggie,  too,  coloured  with 
surprise,  which  soon  gave  way  to  pleasure.  She  put  out 
her  hand  and  looked  down  at  the  deformed  figure  before 
her  with  frank  eyes,  filled  for  the  moment  with  nothing 
but  the  memory  of  her  child's  feelings,  —  a  memory  that 
was  always  strong  in  her.  She  was  the  first  to  speak. 

••  You  startled  me,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly ;  "  I  never 
meet  any  one  here.  How  came  you  to  be  walking  here  ? 
Did  you  come  to  meet  me  ?  " 

It  was  impossible  not  to  perceive  that  Maggie  felt  herself  a 
child  again. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  Philip,  still  embarrassed ;  "  I  wished 
to  see  you  very  much.  I  watched  a  long  while  yesterday 
on  the  bank  near  your  house  to  see  if  you  would  come  out, 
but  you  never  came.  Then  I  watched  again  to-day,  and  when 
I  saw  the  way  you  took,  I  kept  you  in  sight  and  came  down 
the  bank,  behind  there.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  displeased 
with  me." 

"No,"  said  Maggie,  with  simple  seriousness,  walking  on 
as  if  she  meant  Philip  to  accompany  her,  "  I  'm  very  glad  you 
came,  for  I  wished  very  much  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  you.  I've  never  forgotten  how  good  you  were 
long  ago  to  Tom,  and  me  too ;  but  I  was  not  sure  that  you 
would  remember  us  so  well.  Tom  and  I  have  had  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  since  then,  and  I  think  that  makes  one  think 
more  of  what  happened  before  the  trouble  came." 

"  I  can't  believe  that  you  have  thought  of  me  so  much  as  I 
have  thought  of  you,"  said  Philip,  timidly.  "Do  you  know, 
when  I  was  away,  I  made  a  picture  of  you  as  you  looked 
that  morning  in  the  study  when  you  said  you  would  not 
forget  me." 

Philip  drew  a  large  miniature-case  from  his  pocket,  and 
opened  it.  Maggie  saw  her  old  self  leaning  on  a  table, 
with  her  black  locks  hanging  down  behind  her  ears,  looking 
into  space  with  strange,  dreamy  eyes.  It  was  a  water-colour 
sketch,  of  real  merit  as  a  portrait. 

"  Oh  dear,"  said  Maggie,  smiling,  and  flushed  with  pleasure, 
"  what  a  queer  little  girl  I  was !  I  remember  myself  with 
my  hair  in  that  way,  in  that  pink  frock.  I  really  was  like 
a  gypsy.  I  daresay  I  am  now,"  she  added,  after  a  little 
pause ;  "  am  I  like  what  you  expected  me  to  be  ?  " 


276  THE   MILL    ON   THE   FLOSS. 

The  words  might  have  been  those  of  a  coquette,  but  the 
full,  bright  glance  Maggie  turned  on  Philip  was  not  that 
of  a  coquette.  She  really  did  hope  he  liked  her  face  as  it 
was  now,  but  it  was  simply  the  rising  again  of  her  innate 
delight  in  admiration  and  love.  Philip  met  her  eyes  and 
looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  long  moment,  before  he  said 
quietly,  "No,  Maggie." 

The  light  died  out  a  little  from  Maggie's  face,  and  there 
was  a  slight  trembling  of  the  lip.  Her  eyelids  fell  lower, 
but  she  did  not  turn  away  her  head,  and  Philip  continued 
to  look  at  her.  Then  he  said  sloAvly,  — 

"  You  are  very  much  more  beautiful  than  I  thought  you 
would  be." 

"Am  I?"  said  Maggie,  the  pleasure  returning  in  a  deeper 
flush.  She  turned  her  face  away  from  him  and  took  some 
steps,  looking  straight  before  her  in  silence,  as  if  she  were 
adjusting  her  consciousness  to  this  new  idea.  Girls  are  so  accus- 
tomed to  think  of  dress  as  the  main  ground  of  vanity,  that,  in 
abstaining  from  the  looking-glass,  Maggie  had  thought  more 
of  abandoning  all  care  for  adornment  than  of  renouncing  the 
contemplation  of  her  face.  Comparing  herself  with  elegant, 
wealthy  young  ladies,  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  she 
could  produce  any  effect  with  her  person.  Philip  seemed 
to  like  the  silence  well.  He  walked  by  her  side,  watching 
her  face,  as  if  that  sight  left  no  room  for  any  other  wish. 
They  had  passed  from  among  the  fir-trees,  and  had  now  come 
to  a  green  hollow  almost  surrounded  by  an  amphitheatre  of 
the  pale  pink  dog-roses.  But  as  the  light  about  them  had 
brightened,  Maggie's  face  had  lost  its  glow.  She  stood  still 
when  they  were  in  the  hollows,  and  looking  at  Philip  again, 
she  said,  in  a  serious,  sad  voice, — 

"  I  wish  we  could  have  been  friends,  —  I  mean,  if  it  would 
have  been  good  and  right  for  us.  But  that  is  the  trial  I  have 
to  bear  in  everything ;  I  may  not  keep  anything  I  used  to  love 
when  I  was  little.  The  old  books  went ;  and  Tom  is  different, 
and  my  father.  It  is  like  death.  I  must  part  with  every- 
thing I  cared  for  when  I  was  a  child.  And  I  must  part  with 
you  ;  we  must  never  take  any  notice  of  each  other  again.  That 
was  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  for.  I  wanted  to  let  you 
know  that  Tom  and  I  can't  do  as  we  like  about  such  things, 
and  that  if  I  behave  as  if  I  had  forgotten  all  about  you,  it  is 
not  out  of  envy  or  pride  —  or  —  or  any  bad  feeling." 

Maggie  spoke  with  more  and  more  sorrowful  gentleness  as 
she  went  on,  and  her  eyes  began  to  till  with  tears.  The  deep- 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  277 

ening  expression  of  pain  on  Philip's  face  gave  him  a  stronger 
resemblance  to  his  boyish  self,  and  made  the  deformity  appeal 
more  strongly  to  her  pity. 

"  I  know ;  I  see  all  that  you  mean,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  had  become  feebler  from  discouragement ;  "  I  know  what 
there  is  to  keep  us  apart  on  both  sides.  But  it  is  not  right, 
Maggie,  —  don't  you  be  angry  with  me,  I  am  so  used  to  call 
you  Maggie  in  my  thoughts,  —  it  is  not  right  to  sacrifice  every- 
thing to  other  people's  unreasonable  feelings.  I  would  give 
up  a  great  deal  for  my  father;  but  I  would  not  give  up  a 
friendship  or  —  or  an  attachment  of  any  sort,  in  obedience  to 
any  wish  of  his  that  I  did  n't  recognise  as  right." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie,  musingly.  "Often,  when 
I  have  been  angry  and  discontented,  it  has  seemed  to  me  that 
I  was  not  bound  to  give  up  anything;  and  I  have  gone  on 
thinking  till  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  think  away  all 
my  duty.  But  no  good  has  ever  come  of  that ;  it  was  an 
evil  state  of  mind.  I  'm  quite  sure  that  whatever  I  might 
do,  I  should  wish  in  the  end  that  I  had  gone  without  any- 
thing for  myself,  rather  than  have  made  my  father's  life 
harder  to  him." 

"But  would  it  make  his  life  harder  if  we  were  to  see  each 
other  sometimes  ?  "  said  Philip.  He  was  going  to  say  some- 
thing else,  but  checked  himself. 

"  Oh,  I  'in  sure  he  would  n't  like  it.  Don't  ask  me  why,  or 
anything  about  it,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  distressed  tone.  "My 
father  feels  so  strongly  about  some  things.  He  is  not  at  all 
happy." 

"  No  more  am  I,"  said  Philip,  impetuously ;  "  I  am  not 
happy." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Maggie,  gently.  "  At  least  —  I  ought  not 
to  ask  —  but  I'm  very,  very  sorry." 

Philip  turned  to  walk  on,  as  if  he  had  not  patience  to  stand 
still  any  longer,  and  they  went  out  of  the  hollow,  winding 
amongst  the  trees  and  bushes  in  silence.  After  that  last 
word  of  Philip's,  Maggie  could  not  bear  to  insist  immediately 
on  their  parting. 

"  I  've  been  a  great  deal  happier,"  she  said  at  last,  timidly, 
"since  I  have  given  up  thinking  about  what  is  easy  and 
pleasant,  and  being  discontented  because  I  could  n't  have  my 
own  will.  Our  life  is  determined  for  us ;  and  it  makes  the 
mind  very  free  when  we  give  up  wishing,  and  only  think  of 
bearing  what  is  laid  upon  us,  and  doing  what  is  given  us 
to  do." 


278  THE  MILL   ON    THE   FLOSS. 

" But  I  can't  give  up  wishing,"  said  Philip,  impatiently.  "It 
seems  to  me  we  can  never  give  up  longing  and  wishing  while 
we  are  thoroughly  alive.  Then'  arc  certain  things  we  feel 
to  be  beautiful  and  good,  and  we  m-ust  hunger  alter  them. 
How  can  we  ever  be  satisfied  without  them  until  our  feelings 
are  deadened?  I  delight  in  fine  pictures;  1  long  to  be  ;il.le 
to  paint  such.  I  strive  and  strive,  and  can't  produce  what 
I  want.  That  is  pain  to  me,  and  always  will  be  pain,  until 
my  faculties  lose  their  keenness,  like  aged  eyes.  Then  there 
are  many  other  things  1  long  for,"  —  here  Philip  hesitated  a 
little,  and  then  said,  —  "things  that  other  men  have,  and  that 
will  always  be  denied  me.  My  life  will  have  nothing  great 
or  beautiful  in  it;  I  would  rather  not  have  lived." 

"Oh,  Philip,"  said  Maggie,  "I  wish  you  didn't  feel  so." 
But  her  heart  began  to  beat  with  something  of  Philip's 
discontent. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  he,  turning  quickly  round  and  fixing  his 
grey  eyes  entreatingly  on  her  face,  "I  should  be  contented  to 
live,  if  you  would  let  me  see  you  sometimes."  Then,  checked 
by  a  fear  which  her  face  suggested,  he  looked  away  again  and 
said  more  calmly,  "I  have  no  friend  to  whom  I  can  tell  every- 
thing, no  one  who  cares  enough  about  me ;  and  if  I  could  only 
see  you  now  and  then,  and  you  would  let  me  talk  to  you  a 
little,  and  show  me  that  you  cared  for  me,  and  that  we  may 
always  be  friends  in  heart,  and  help  each  other,  then  I  might 
come  to  be  glad  of  life." 

"  But  how  can  I  see  you,  Philip  ?  "  said  Maggie,  falteringly. 
(Could  she  really  do  him  good  ?  It  would  be  very  hard  to 
say  "  good-bye  "  this  day,  and  riot  speak  to  him  again.  Here 
was  a  new  interest  to  vary  the  days ;  it  was  so  much  easier 
to  renounce  the  interest  before  it  came.) 

"  If  you  would  let  me  see  you  here  sometimes,  —  walk  with 
you  here,  —  I  would  be  contented  if  it  were  only  once  or 
twice  in  a  month.  That  could  injure  no  one's  happiness,  and 
it  would  sweeten  my  life.  Besides,"  Philip  went  on,  with  all 
the  inventive  astuteness  of  love  at  one-and-twenty,  "if  there 
is  any  enmity  between  those  who  belong  to  us,  we  ought  all 
the  more  to  try  and  quench  it  by  our  friendship ;  I  mean, 
that  by  our  influence  on  both  sides  we  might  bring  about  a 
healing  of  the  wounds  that  have  been  made  in  the  past,  if  I 
could  know  everything  about  them.  And  I  don't  believe 
there  is  any  enmity  in  my  own  father's  mind ;  I  think  he  has 
proved  the  contrary." 

Maggie  shook  her  head  slowly,  and  was  silent,  under  con- 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  279 

flicting  thoughts.  It  seemed  to  her  inclination,  that  to  see 
Philip  now  and  then,  and  keep  up  the  bond  of  friendship  with 
him,  was  something  not  only  innocent,  but  good ;  perhaps  she 
might  really  help  him  to  find  contentment  as  she  had  found 
it.  The  voice  that  said  this  made  sweet  music  to  Maggie; 
but  athwart  it  there  came  an  urgent,  monotonous  warning 
from  another  voice  which  she  had  been  learning  to  obey, — 
the  warning  that  such  interviews  implied  secrecy ;  implied 
doing  something  she  would  dread  to  be  discovered  in,  some- 
thing that,  if  discovered,  must  cause  anger  and  pain ;  and 
that  the  admission  of  anything  so  near  doubleness  would  act 
as  a  spiritual  blight.  Yet  the  music  would  swell  out  again, 
like  chimes  borne  onward  by  a  recurrent  breeze,  persuading 
her  that  the  wrong  lay  all  in  the  faults  and  weaknesses  of 
others,  and  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  futile  sacrifice  for 
one  to  the  injury  of  another.  It  was  very  cruel  for  Philip 
that  he  should  be  shrunk  from,  because  of  an  unjustifiable 
vindictiveness  towards  his  father,  —  poor  Philip,  whom  some 
people  would  shrink  from  only  because  he  was  deformed. 
The  idea  that  he  might  become  her  lover,  or  that  her  meeting 
him  could  cause  disapproval  in  that  light,  had  not  occurred 
to  her  ;  and  Philip  saw  the  absence  of  this  idea  clearly  enough, 
saw  it  with  a  certain  pang,  although  it  made  her  consent  to 
his  request  the  less  unlikely.  There  was  bitterness  to  him 
in  the  perception  that  Maggie  was  almost  as  frank  and  uncon- 
strained towards  him  as  when  she  was  a  child. 

"I  can't  say  either  yes  or  no,"  she  said  at  last,  turning 
round  and  walking  towards  the  way  she  had  come ;  "  I  must 
wait,  lest  I  should  decide  wrongly.  I  must  seek  for  guidance." 

"  May  I  come  again,  then,  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or 
next  week?" 

"  I  think  I  had  better  write,"  said  Maggie,  faltering  again. 
"  I  have  to  go  to  St.  Ogg's  sometimes,  and  I  can  put  the  letter 
in  the  post." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Philip,  eagerly ;  "  that  would  not  be  so  well. 
My  father  might  see  the  letter  —  and  —  he  has  not  any 
enmity,  I  believe,  but  he  views  things  differently  from  me  ; 
he  thinks  a  great  deal  about  wealth  and  position.  Pray  let 
me  come  here  once  more.  Tell  me  when  it  shall  be  ;  or  if  you 
can't  tell  me,  I  will  come  as  often  as  I  can  till  I  do  see  you." 

"  I  think  it  must  be  so,  then,"  said  Maggie,  "  for  I  can't  be 
quite  certain  of  coming  here  any  particular  evening." 

Maggie  felt  a  great  relief  in  adjourning  the  decision.  She 
was  free  now  to  enjoy  the  minutes  of  companionship;  she 


280  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

almost  thought  she  might  linger  a  little ;  the  next  time  they 
met  she  should  have  to  paiii  Philip  by  telling  him  her 
determination. 

"I  can't  help  thinking,"  she  said,  looking  smilingly  at  him, 
after  a  few  moments  of  silence,  "  how  strange  it  is  that  we 
should  have  met  and  talked  to  each  other,  just  as  if  it  had 
been  only  yesterday  when  we  parted  at  Lorton.  And  yet  we 
must  both  be  very  much  altered  in  those  five  years,  —  I 
think  it  is  five  years.  How  was  it  you  seemed  to  have  a  sort 
of  feeling  that  I  was  the  same  Maggie  ?  I  was  not  quite  so 
sure  that  you  would  be  the  same ;  I  know  you  are  so  clever, 
and  you  must  have  seen  and  learnt  so  much  to  fill  your  mind ; 
I  was  not  quite  sure  you  would  care  about  me  now." 

"  I  have  never  had  any  doubt  that  you  would  be  the  same, 
whenever  I  might  see  you,"  said  Philip,  —  "I  mean,  the  same 
in  everything  that  made  me  like  you  better  than  any  one  else. 
I  don't  want  to  explain  that ;  I  don't  think  any  of  the  strong- 
est effects  our  natures  are  susceptible  of  can  ever  be  explained. 
We  can  neither  detect  the  process  by  which  they  are  arrived 
at,  nor  the  mode  in  which  they  act  on  us.  The  greatest  of 
painters  only  once  painted  a  mysteriously  divine  child ;  he 
could  n't  have  told  how  he  did  it,  and  we  can't  tell  why  we 
feel  it  to  be  divine.  I  think  there  are  stores  laid  up  in  our 
human  nature  that  our  understandings  can  make  no  complete 
inventory  of.  Certain  strains  of  music  affect  me  so  strangely ; 
I  can  never  hear  them  without  their  changing  my  whole  atti- 
tude of  mind  for  a  time,  and  if  the  effect  would  last,  I  might 
be  capable  of  heroisms." 

"  Ah !  I  know  what  you  mean  about  music ;  /  feel  so," 
said  Maggie,  clasping  her  hands  with  her  old  impetuosity. 
"  At  least,"  she  added,  in  a  saddened  tone,  "  I  used  to  feel  so 
when  I  had  any  music;  I  never  have  any  now  except  the 
organ  at  church." 

"  And  you  long  for  it,  Maggie  ?  "  said  Philip,  looking  at  her 
with  affectionate  pity.  "  Ah,  you  can  have  very  little  that  is 
beautiful  in  your  life.  Have  you  many  books  ?  You  were  so 
fond  of  them  when  you  were  a  little  girl." 

They  were  come  back  to  the  hollow,  round  which  the  dog- 
roses  grew,  and  they  both  paused  under  the  charm  of  the 
faery  evening  light,  reflected  from  the  pale  pink  clusters. 

"  No,  I  have  given  up  books,"  said  Maggie,  quietly,  "  except 
a  very,  very  few." 

Philip  had  already  taken  from  his  pocket  a  small  volume, 
and  was  looking  at  the  back  as  he  said, — 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  281 

"  Ah,  this  is  the  second  volume,  I  see,  else  you  might  have 
liked  to  take  it  home  with  you.  I  put  it  in  my  pocket  because 
I  am  studying  a  scene  for  a  picture." 

Maggie  had  looked  at  the  back  too,  and  saw  the  title ;  it 
revived  an.  old  impression  with  overmastering  force. 

" '  The  Pirate,' "  she  said,  taking  the  book  from  Philip's 
hands.  "  Oh,  I  began  that  once ;  I  read  to  where  Minna  is 
walking  with  Cleveland,  and  I  could  never  get  to  read  the 
rest.  I  went  on  with  it  in  my  own  head,  and  I  made  several 
endings ;  but  they  were  all  unhappy.  I  could  never  make  a 
happy  ending  out  of  that  beginning.  Poor  Minna !  'I  wonder 
what  is  the  real  end.  For  a  long  while  I  could  n't  get  my 
mind  away  from  the  Shetland  Isles,  —  I  used  to  feel  the  wind 
blowing  on  me  from  the  rough  sea." 

Maggie  spoke  rapidly,  with  glistening  eyes. 

"Take  that  volume  home  with  you,  Maggie,"  said  Philip, 
watching  her  with  delight.  "  I  don't  want  it  now.  I  shall 
make  a  picture  of  you  instead,  —  you,  among  the  Scotch  firs 
dnd  the  slanting  shadows." 

Maggie  had  not  heard  a  word  he  had  said ;  she  was  absorbed 
in  a  page  at  which  she  had  opened.  But  suddenly  she  closed 
the  book,  and  gave  it  back  to  Philip,  shaking  her  head  with 
a  backward  movement,  as  if  to  say  "avaunt"  to  floating 
visions. 

"  Do  keep  it,  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  entreatingly ;  "  it  will 
give  you  pleasure." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  putting  it  aside  with  her 
hand  and  walking  on.  "  It  would  make  me  in  love  with  this 
world  again,  as  I  used  to  be ;  it  would  make  me  long  to  see  and 
know  many  things ;  it  would  make  me  long  for  a  full  life." 

"  But  you  will  not  always  be  shut  up  in  your  present  lot ; 
why  should  you  starve  your  mind  in  that  way  ?  It  is  narrow 
asceticism ;  I  don't  like  to  see  you  persisting  in  it,  Maggie. 
Poetry  and  art  and  knowledge  are  sacred  and  pure." 

"  But  not  for  me,  not  for  me,"  said  Maggie,  walking  more 
hurriedly ;  "  because  I  should  want  too  much.  I  must  wait ; 
this  life  will  not  last  long." 

"  Don't  hurry  away  from  me  without  saying  '  good-bye,' 
Maggie,"  said  Philip,  as  they  reached  the  group  of  Scotch  firs, 
and  she  continued  still  to  walk  along  without  speaking.  "I 
must  not  go  any  farther,  I  think,  must  I  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  I  forgot ;  good-bye,"  said  Maggie,  pausing,  and  put- 
ting out  her  hand  to  him.  The  action  brought  her  feeling 
back  in  a  strong  current  to  Philip ;  and  after  they  had  stood 


282  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

looking  at  each  other  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  with  their 
hands  clasped,  she  said,  withdrawing  her  hand, — 

"  I  'm  very  grateful  to  you  for  thinking  of  me  all  those 
years.  It  is  very  sweet  to  have  people  love  us.  What  a  won- 
derful, beautiful  thing  it  seems  that  God  should  have  made 
your  heart  so  that  you  could  care  about  a  queer  little  girl 
whom  you  only  knew  for  a  few  weeks  !  1  remember  saying  to 
you  that  I  thought  you  cared  for  me  more  than  Tom  did." 

"Ah,  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  almost  fretfully,  "you  would 
never  love  me  so  well  as  you  love  your  brother." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Maggie,  simply  ;  "  but  then,  you  know, 
the  first  thing  I  ever  remember  in  my  life  is  standing  with 
Tom  by  the  side  of  the  Floss,  while  he  held  my  hand ;  every- 
thing before  that  is  dark  to  me.  But  I  shall  never  forget 
you,  though  we  must  keep  apart." 

"  Don't  say  so,  Maggie,"  said  Philip.  "  If  I  kept  that  little 
girl  in  my  mind  for  five  years,  did  n't  I  earn  some  part  in  her  ? 
She  ought  not  to  take  herself  quite  away  from  me." 

"Not  if  I  were  free,"  said  Maggie;  "biit  I  am  not,  I  must 
submit."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  added,  "And  I 
wanted  to  say  to  you,  that  you  had  better  not  take  more  notice 
of  my  brother  than  just  bowing  to  him.  He  once  told  me  not 
to  speak  to  you  again,  and  he  does  n't  change  his  mind  —  Oh 
dear,  the  sun  is  set.  I  am  too  long  away.  Good-bye."  She 
gave  him  her  hand  once  more. 

"  I  shall  come  here  as  often  as  I  can  till  I  see  you  again, 
Maggie.  Have  some  feeling  for  me  as  well  as  for  others." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  have,"  said  Maggie,  hurrying  away,  and  quickly 
disappearing  behind  the  last  fir-tree ;  though  Philip's  gaze 
after  her  remained  immovable  for  minutes  as  if  he  saw  her 
still. 

Maggie  went  home,  with  an  inward  conflict  already  begun ; 
Philip  went  home  to  do  nothing  but  remember  and  hope.  You 
can  hardly  help  blaming  him  severely.  He  was  four  or  five 
years  older  than  Maggie,  and  had  a  full  consciousness  of  his 
feeling  towards  her  to  aid  him  in  foreseeing  the  character  his 
contemplated  interviews  with  her  would  bear  in  the  opinion 
of  a  third  person.  But  you  must  not  suppose  that  he  was 
capable  of  a  gross  selfishness,  or  that  he  could  have  been  satis- 
fied without  persuading  himself  that  he  was  seeking  to  infuse 
some  happiness  into  Maggie's  life,  —  seeking  this  even  more 
than  any  direct  ends  for  himself.  He  could  give  her  sym- 
pathy ;  he  could  give  her  help.  There  was  not  the  slightest 
promise  of  love  towards  him  in  her  manner ;  it  was  nothing 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  288 

more  than  the  sweet  girlish  tenderness  she  had  shown  him 
when  she  was  twelve.  Perhaps  she  would  never  love  him ;  per- 
haps no  woman  ever  could  love  him.  Well,  then,  he  would 
endure  that ;  he  should  at  least  have  the  happiness  of  seeing 
her,  of  feeling  some  nearness  to  her.  And  he  clutched  pas- 
sionately the  possibility  that  she  might  love  him ;  perhaps  the 
feeling  would  grow,  if  she  could  come  to  associate  him  with 
that  watchful  tenderness  which  her  nature  would  be  so  keenly 
alive  to.  If  any  woman  could  love  him,  surely  Maggie  was 
that  woman ;  there  was  such  wealth  of  love  in  her,  and  there 
was  no  one  to  claim  it  all.  Then,  the  pity  of  it,  that  a  mind 
like  hers  should  be  withering  in  its  very  youth,  like  a  young 
forest-tree,  for  want  of  the  light  and  space  it  was  formed  to 
flourish  in !  Could  he  not  hinder  that,  by  persuading  her  out 
of  her  system  of  privation  ?  He  would  be  her  guardian  angel ; 
he  would  do  anything,  bear  anything,  for  her  sake  —  except 
not  seeing  her. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AUNT  GLEGG  LEARNS  THE  BREADTH  OF  BOB'S  THUMB. 

WHILE  Maggie's  life-struggles  had  lain  almost  entirely 
within  her  own  soul,  one  shadowy  army  fighting  another,  and 
the  slain  shadows  for  ever  rising  again,  Tom  was  engaged  in  a 
dustier,  noisier  warfare,  grappling  with  more  substantial  ob- 
stacles, and  gaining  more  definite  conquests.  So  it  has  been 
since  the  days  of  Hecuba,  and  of  Hector,  Tamer  of  horses ; 
inside  the  gates,  the  Avomen  with  streaming  hair  and  uplifted 
hands  offering  prayers,  watching  the  world's  combat  from  afar, 
filling  their  long,  empty  days  with  memories  and  fears ;  out- 
side, the  men,  in  fierce  struggle  with  things  divine  and  human, 
quenching  memory  in  the  stronger  light  of  purpose,  losing  the 
sense  of  dread  and  even  of  wounds  in  the  hurrying  ardour  of 
action. 

From  what  you  have  seen  of  Tom,  I  think  he  is  not  a  youth 
of  whom  you  would  prophesy  failure  in  anything  he  had  thor- 
oughly wished ;  the  wagers  are  likely  to  be  on  his  side,  not- 
withstanding his  small  success  in  the  classics.  For  Tom  had 
never  desired  success  in  this  field  of  enterprise ;  and  for 
getting  a  fine  flourishing  growth  of  stupidity  there  is  nothing 


284  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

like  pouring  out  on  a  mind  a  good  amount  of  subjects  in 
which  it  feels  no  interest.  But  now  Tom's  strong  will  bound 
together  his  integrity,  his  pride,  his  family  regrets,  and  his 
personal  ambition,  and  made  them  one  force,  concentrating 
his  efforts  and  surmounting  discouragements.  His  uncle 
Deane,  who  watched  him  closely,  soon  began  to  conceive 
hopes  of  him,  and  to  be  rather  proud  that  he  had  brought 
into  the  employment  of  the  firm  a  nephew  who  appeared  to 
be  made  of  such  good  commercial  stuff.  The  real  kindness  of 
placing  him  in  the  warehouse  first  was  soon  evident  to  Tom,  in 
the  hints  his  uncle  began  to  throw  out,  that  after  a  time  he  might 
perhaps  be  trusted  to  travel  at  certain  seasons,  and  buy  in  for 
the  firm  various  vulgar  commodities  with  which  I  need  not 
shock  refined  ears  in  this  place ;  and  it  was  doubtless  with 
a  view  to  this  result  that  Mr.  Deane,  when  he  expected  to 
take  his  wine  alone,  would  tell  Tom  to  step  in  and  sit  with 
him  an  hour,  and  would  pass  that  hour  in  much  lecturing  and 
catechising  concerning  articles  of  export  and  import,  with  an 
occasional  excursus  of  more  indirect  utility  on  the  relative 
advantages  to  the  merchants  of  St.  Ogg's  of  having  goods 
brought  in  their  own  and  in  foreign  bottoms,  —  a  subject  on 
which  Mr.  Deane,  as  a  ship-owner,  naturally  threw  off  a  few 
sparks  when  he  got  warmed  with  talk  and  wine.  Already,  in 
the  second  year,  Tom's  salary  was  raised ;  but  all,  except  the 
price  of  his  dinner  and  clothes,  went  home  into  the  tin  box ; 
and  he  shunned  comradeship,  lest  it  should  lead  him  into  ex- 
penses in  spite  of  himself.  Not  that  Tom  was  moulded  on 
the  spooney  type  of  the  Industrious  Apprentice ;  he  had  a 
very  strong  appetite  for  pleasure,  —  would  have  liked  to  be  a 
Tamer  of  horses  and  to  make  a  distinguished  figure  in  all 
neighbouring  eyes,  dispensing  treats  and  benefits  to  others 
with  well-judged  liberality,  and  being  pronounced  one  of 
the  finest  young  fellows  of  those  parts  ;  nay,  he  determined 
to  achieve  these  things  sooner  or  later ;  but  his  practical 
shrewdness  told  him  that  the  means  to  such  achievements 
could  only  lie  for  him  in  present  abstinence  and  self-denial ; 
there  were  certain  milestones  to  be  passed,  and  one  of  the 
first  was  the  payment  of  his  father's  debts.  Having  made  up 
his  mind  on  that  point,  he  strode  along  without  swerving,  con- 
tracting some  rather  saturnine  sternness,  as  a  young  man  is 
likely  to  do  who  has  a  premature  call  upon  him  for  self- 
reliance.  Tom  felt  intensely  that  common  cause  with  his 
father  which  springs  from  family  pride,  and  was  bent  on 
being  irreproachable  as  a  son  j  but  his  growing  experience 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  285 

caused  him  to  pass  much  silent  criticism  on  the  rashness  and 
imprudence  of  his  father's  past  conduct;  their  dispositions 
were  not  in  sympathy,  and  Tom's  face  showed  little  radiance 
during  his  few  home  hours.  Maggie  had  an  awe  of  him, 
against  which  she  struggled  as  something  unfair  to  her  con- 
sciousness of  wider  thoughts  and  deeper  motives;  but  it 
was  of  no  use  to  struggle.  A  character  at  unity  with  itself 
—  that  performs  what  it  intends,  subdues  every  counteracting 
impulse,  and  has  no  visions  beyond  the  distinctly  possible  — 
is  strong  by  its  very  negations. 

You  may  imagine  that  Tom's  more  and  more  obvious  un- 
likeness  to  his  father  was  well  fitted  to  conciliate  the  mater- 
nal aunts  and  uncles ;  and  Mr.  Dearie's  favourable  reports 
and  predictions  to  Mr.  Glegg  concerning  Tom's  qualifications 
for  business  began  to  be  discussed  amongst  them  with  various 
acceptance.  He  was  likely,  it  appeared,  to  do  the  family  credit 
without  causing  it  any  expense  and  trouble.  Mrs.  Pullet  had 
always  thought  it  strange  if  Tom's  excellent  complexion,  so 
entirely  that  of  the  Dodsons,  did  not  argue  a  certainty  that  he 
would  turn  out  well ;  his  juvenile  errors  of  running  down  the 
peacock,  and  general  disrespect  to  his  aunts,  only  indicating 
a  tinge  of  Tulliver  blood  which  he  had  doubtless  outgrown. 
Mr.  Glegg,  who  had  contracted  a  cautious  liking  for  Tom  ever 
since  his  spirited  and  sensible  behaviour  when  the  executioii 
was  in  the  house,  was  now  warming  into  a  resolution  to  fur- 
ther his  prospects  actively,  —  some  time,  when  an  opportunity 
offered  of  doing  so  in  a  prudent  manner,  without  ultimate 
loss ;  but  Mrs.  Glegg  observed  that  she  was  not  given  to  speak 
without  book,  as  some  people  were ;  that  those  who  said  least 
were  most  likely  to  find  their  words  made  good;  and  that 
when  the  right  moment  came,  it  would  be  seen  who  could 
do  something  better  than  talk.  Uncle  Pullet,  after  silent 
meditation  for  a  period  of  several  lozenges,  came  distinctly 
to  the  conclusion,  that  when  a  young  man  was  likely  to  do 
well,  it  was  better  not  to  meddle  with  him. 

Tom,  meanwhile,  had  shown  no  disposition  to  rely  on  any 
one  but  himself,  though,  with  a  natural  sensitiveness  towards 
all  indications  of  favourable  opinion,  he  was  glad  to  see  his 
uncle  Glegg  look  in  on  him  sometimes  in  a  friendly  way 
during  business  hours,  and  glad  to  be  invited  to  dine  at  his 
house,  though  he  usually  preferred  declining  on  the  ground 
that  he  was  not  sure  of  being  punctual.  But  about  a  year 
ago,  something  had  occurred  which  induced  Tom  to  test  his 
uncle  Glegg's  friendly  disposition. 


286  THE   MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Bob  Jakin,  who  rarely  returned  from  one  of  his  rounds 
without  seeing  Toin  and  Maggie,  awaited  him  on  the  bridge 
as  he  was  coming  home  from  St.  Ogg's  one  evening,  that  they 
might  have  a  little  private  talk.  He  took  the  liberty  of 
asking  if  Mr.  Tom  had  ever  thought  of  making  money  by 
trading  a  bit  on  his  own  account.  Trading,  how  ?  Tom 
wished  to  know.  Why,  by  sending  out  a  bit  of  a  cargo  to 
foreign  ports ;  because  Bob  had  a  particular  friend  who  had 
offered  to  do  a  little  business  for  him  in  that  way  in  Laceluui' 
goods,  and  would  be  glad  to  serve  Mr.  Tom  on  the  sain;- 
looting.  Tom  was  interested  at  once,  and  begged  for  full 
explanation,  wondering  he  had  not  thought  of  this  plan 
before.  He  was  so  well  pleased  with  the  prospect  of  a 
speculation  that  might  change  the  slow  process  of  addition 
into  multiplication,  that  he  at  once  determined  to  mention 
the  matter  to  his  father,  and  get  his  consent  to  appro- 
priate some  of  the  savings  in  the  tin  box  to  the  purchase 
of  a  small  cargo.  He  would  rather  riot  have  consulted 
his  father,  but  he  had  just  paid  his  last  quarter's  money 
into  the  tin  box,  and  there  was  no  other  resource.  All 
the  savings  were  there ;  for  Mr.  Tulliver  would  not  con- 
sent to  put  the  money  out  at  interest  lest  he  should  lose 
it.  Since  he  had  speculated  in  the  purchase  of  some  corn, 
and  had  lost  by  it,  he  could  not  be  easy  without  keeping 
the  money  under  his  eye. 

Tom  approached  the  subject  carefully,  as  he  was  seated  on 
the  hearth  with  his  father  that  evening,  and  Mr.  Tulliver  lis- 
tened, leaning  forward  in  his  arm-chair  and  looking  up  in  Tom's 
face  with  a  sceptical  glance.  His  first  impulse  was  to  give  a 
positive  refusal,  but  he  was  in  some  awe  of  Tom's  wishes,  and 
since  he  had  had  the  sense  of  being  an  "unlucky"  father,  he 
had  lost  some  of  his  old  peremptorincss  and  determination  to 
be  master.  He  took  the  key  of  the  bureau  from  his  pocket, 
got  out  the  key  of  the  large  chest,  and  fetched  down  the  tin 
box,  —  slowly,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  defer  the  moment  of  a 
painful  parting.  Then  he  seated  himself  against  the  table, 
and  opened  the  box  with  that  little  padlock-key  which  he  fin- 
gered in  his  waistcoat  pocket  in  all  vacant  moments.  There 
they  were,  the  dingy  bank-notes  and  the  bright  sovereigns, 
and  he  counted  them  out  on  the  table  —  only  a  hundred  and 
sixteen  pounds  in  two  years,  after  all  the  pinching. 

"  How  much  do  you  want,  then  ?  "  he  said,  speaking  as  if 
the  words  burnt  his  lips. 

"Suppose  I  begin  with  the  thirty-six  pounds,  father?" 
said  Tom. 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  287 

Mr.  Tuiliver  separated  this  sum  from  the  rest,  and  keeping 
his  hand  over  it,  said,  — 

"  It 's  as  much  as  I  can  save  out  o'  my  pay  in  a  year." 

"  Yes,  father ;  it  is  such  slow  work,  saving  out  of  the 
little  money  we  get.  And  in  this  way  we  might  double  our 
savings." 

"Ay,  my  lad,"  said  the  father,  keeping  his  hand  on  the 
money,  "but  you  might  lose  it, — you  might  lose  a  year  o'  my 
life,  —  and  I  haven't  got  many." 

Tom  was  silent. 

"  And  you  know  I  would  n't  pay  a  dividend  with  the  first 
hundred,  because  I  wanted  to  see  it  all  in  a  lump,  —  and  when 
I  see  it,  I  'm  sure  011  't.  If  you  trust  to  luck,  it 's  sure  to  be 
against  me.  It 's  Old  Harry 's  got  the  luck  in  his  hands ;  and 
if  I  lose  one  year,  I  shall  never  pick  it  up  again ;  death  'ull 
o'ertake  me." 

Mr.  Tulliver's  voice  trembled,  and  Tom  was  silent  for  a  few 
minutes  before  he  said,  — 

"  I  '11  give  it  up,  father,  since  you  object  to  it  so  strongly." 

But,  unwilling  to  abandon  the  scheme  altogether,  he  deter- 
mined to  ask  his  uncle  G-legg  to  venture  twenty  pounds,  on 
condition  of  receiving  five  per  cent  of  th.e  profits.  That  was 
really  a  very  small  thing  to  ask.  So  *vhen  Bob  called  the 
next  day  at  the  wharf  to  know  the  decision,  Tom  proposed 
that  they  should  go  together  to  his  uncle  Glegg's  to  open 
the  business ;  for  his  diffident  pride  clung  to  him,  and  made 
him  feel  that  Bob's  tongue  would  relieve  him  from  some 
embarrassment. 

Mr.  Glegg,  at  the  pleasant  hour  of  four  in  the  afternoon 
of  a  hot  August  day,  was  naturally  counting  his  wall-fruit  to 
assure  himself  that  the  sum  total  had  not  varied  since  yester- 
day. To  him  entered  Tom,  in  what  appeared  to  Mr.  Glegg 
very  questionable  companionship,  —  that  of  a  man  with  a  pack 
on  his  back,  —  for  Bob  was  equipped  for  a  new  journey,  —  and 
of  a  huge  brindled  bull-terrier,  who  walked  with  a  slow,  sway- 
ing movement  from  side  to  side,  and  glanced  from  under  his 
eyelids  with  a  surly  indifference  which  might  after  all  be  a 
cover  to  the  most  offensive  designs.  Mr.  Glegg's  spectacles, 
which  had  been  assisting  him  in  counting  the  fruit,  made 
these  suspicious  details  alarmingly  evident  to  him. 

"  Heigh !  heigh !  keep  that  dog  back,  will  you  ?  "  he  shouted, 
snatching  up  a  stake  and  holding  it  before  him  as  a  shield  when 
the  visitors  were  within  three  yards  of  him. 

"  Get  out  wi'  you,  Mumps,"  said  Bob,  with  a  kick.    "  He 's  as 


288  THE   MILL   ON   Till-:  FLOSS. 

quiet  as  a  lamb,  sir,"  —  an  observation  which  Mumps  corrobo- 
rated by  a  low  growl  as  he  retreated  behind  his  master's  legs. 

"  Why,  what  ever  does  this  mean,  Tom  ?  "  said  Mr.  Glegg. 
"  Have  you  brought  information  about  the  scoundrels  as  cut 
my  trees  ?  "  If  Bob  came  in  the  character  of  "  information," 
Mr.  Glegg  saw  reasons  for  tolerating  some  irregularity. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Tom ;  "  I  came  to  speak  to  you  about  a  little 
matter  of  business  of  my  own." 

"  Ay  —  well ;  but  what  has  this  dog  got  to  do  with  it  ?  "  said 
the  old  gentleman,  getting  mild  again. 

"  It 's  my  dog,  sir,"  said  the  ready  Bob.  "  An'  it 's  me  as  put 
Mr.  Tom  up  to  the  bit  o'  business  ;  for  Mr.  Tom 's  been  a  friend 
o'  mine  iver  since  I  was  a  little  chap ;  fust  thing  iver  I  did  was 
frightenin'  the  birds  for  th'  old  master.  An'  if  a  bit  o'  luck 
turns  up,  I  'in  allays  thinkin'  if  I  can  let  Mr.  Tom  have  a  pull 
at  it.  An'  it 's  a  downright  roarin'  shame,  as  when  he  's  got 
the  chance  o'  making  a  bit  o'  money  wi'  sending  goods  out,  — 
ten  or  twelve  per  zent  clear,  when  freight  an'  commission 's 
paid,  —  as  he  should  n't  lay  hold  o'  the  chance  for  want  o' 
money.  An'  when  there  's  the  Laceham  goods,  —  lors  !  they  're 
made  o'  purpose  for  folks  as  want  to  send  out  a  little  carguy  ; 
light,  an'  take  up  no  room,  —  you  may  pack  twenty  pound  so 
as  you  can't  see  the  passill ;  an'  they  're  manifacturs  as  please 
fools,  so  I  reckon  they  are  n't  like  to  want  a  market.  An'  I  'd 
go  to  Laceham  an'  buy  in  the  goods  for  Mr.  Tom  along  wi'  my 
own.  An'  there  's  the  shupercargo  o'  the  bit  of  a  vessel  as  is 
goin'  to  take  'em  out.  I  know  him  partic'lar ;  he  's  a  solid 
man,  an'  got  a  family  i'  the  town  here.  Salt,  his  name  is,  —  an' 
a  briny  chap  he  is  too,  —  an'  if  you  don't  believe  me,  I  can  take 
you  to  him." 

Uncle  Glegg  stood  open-mouthed  with  astonishment  at  this 
unembarrassed  loquacity,  with  which  his  understanding  could 
hardly  keep  pace.  He  looked  at  Bob,  first  over  his  spectacles, 
then  through  them,  then  over  them  again ;  while  Tom,  doubt- 
ful of  his  uncle's  impression,  began  to  wish  he  had  not  brought 
this  singular  Aaron,  or  mouthpiece.  Bob's  talk  appeared  less 
seemly,  now  some  one  besides  himself  was  listening  to  it. 

"  You  seem  to  be  a  knowing  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  at 
last. 

"Ay,  sir,  you  say  true,"  returned  Bob,  nodding  his  head 
aside ;  "  I  think  my  head  's  all  alive  inside  like  an  old  cheese, 
for  I  'm  so  full  o'  plans,  one  knocks  another  over.  If  I  had  n't 
Mumps  to  talk  to,  I  should  get  top-heavy  an'  tumble  in  a  fit. 
I  suppose  it 's  because  I  niver  went  to  school  much.  That 's 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  289 

what  I  jaw  my  old  mother  for.  I  says,  'You  should  ha'  sent 
me  to  school  a  bit  more/  I  says,  'an'  then  I  could  ha'  read 
i'  the  books  like  fun,  an'  kep'  my  head  cool  an'  empty.'  Lors, 
she  's  fine  an'  comfor'ble  now,  my  old  mother  is ;  she  ates  her 
baked  meat  an'  taters  as  often  as  she  likes.  For  I  'm  gettin'  so 
full  o'  money,  I  must  hev  a  wife  to  spend  it  for  me.  But  it 's 
botherin',  a  wife  is,  —  and  Mumps  might  n't  like  her." 

Uncle  Glegg,  who  regarded  himself  as  a  jocose  man  since 
he  had  retired  from  business,  was  beginning  to  find  Bob  amus- 
ing, but  he  had  still  a  disapproving  observation  to  make,  which 
kept  his  face  serious. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  I  should  think  you  're  at  a  loss  for  ways  o' 
spending  your  money,  else  you  would  n't  keep  that  big  dog,  to 
eat  as  much  as  two  Christians.  It 's  shameful  —  shameful ! " 
But  he  spoke  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  and  quickly 
added,  — 

"  But,  come  now,  let 's  hear  more  about  this  business,  Tom. 
I  suppose  you  want  a  little  sum  to  make  a  venture  with.  But 
where 's  all  your  own  money  ?  You  don't  spend  it  all  —  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Tom,  colouring ;  "  but  my  father  is  unwilling 
to  risk  it,  and  I  don't  like  to  press  him.  If  I  could  get  twenty 
or  thirty  pounds  to  begin  with,  I  could  pay  five  per  cent  for  it, 
and  then  I  could  gradually  make  a  little  capital  of  my  own, 
and  do  without  a  loan." 

"Ay  —  ay,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  in  an  approving  tone ;  "that's 
not  a  bad  notion,  and  I  won't  say  as  I  would  n't  be  your  man. 
But  it  'ull  be  as  well  for  me  to  see  this  Salt,  as  you  talk  on. 
And  then  —  here 's  this  friend  o'  yours  offers  to  buy  the  goods 
for  you.  Perhaps  you  've  got  somebody  to  stand  surety  for 
you  if  the  money  's  put  into  your  hands  ?  "  added  the  cautious 
old  gentleman,  looking  over  his  spectacles  at  Bob. 

"  I  don't  think  that 's  necessary,  uncle,"  said  Tom.  "  At  least, 
I  mean  it  would  not  be  necessary  for  me,  because  I  know  Bob 
well;  but  perhaps  it  would  be  right  for  you  to  have  some 
security." 

"  You  get  your  percentage  out  o'  the  purchase,  I  suppose  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Glegg,  looking  at  Bob. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Bob,  rather  indignantly  ;  "  I  did  n't  offer  to 
get  a  apple  for  Mr.  Tom,  o'  purpose  to  hev  a  bite  out  of  it  my 
self.  When  I  play  folks  tricks,  there  '11  be  more  fun  in  'em 
nor  that." 

"  Well,  but  it 's  nothing  but  right  you  should  have  a  small 
percentage,"  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "  I  've  no  opinion  o'  transactions 
where  folks  do  things  for  nothing.  It  allays  looks  bad." 

19 


290  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Bob,  whose  keenness  saw  at  once  what 
was  implied,  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  get  by 't,  an'  it 's  money  in 
my  pocket  in  the  end,  —  I  make  myself  look  big,  wi'  makin'  a 
bigger  purchase.  That 's  what  I  'm  thinking  on.  Lors  !  I  'm  a 
'cute  chap,  —  I  am." 

"  Mr.  Glegg,  Mi.  Glegg ! "  said  a  severe  voice  from  the  open 
parlour  window,  "  pray  are  you  coining  in  to  tea,  or  are  you 
going  to  stand  talking  with  packmen  till  you  get  murdered  in 
the  open  daylight  ?  " 

"  Murdered  ?  "  said  Mr.  Glegg ;  "  what 's  the  woman  talking 
of  ?  Here  's  your  nephey  Tom  come  about  a  bit  o'  business." 

"  Murdered,  —  yes,  —  it  is  n't  many  'sizes  ago  since  a  pack- 
man murdered  a  young  woman  in  a  lone  place,  and  stole  her 
thimble,  and  threw  her  body  into  a  ditch." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  soothingly,  "  you  're  thinking 
o'  the  man  wi'  no  legs,  as  drove  a  dog-cart." 

"  Well,  it 's  the  same  thing,  Mr.  Glegg,  only  you  're  fond 
o'  contradicting  what  I  say  ;  and  if  my  nephey  's  come  about 
business,  it  'ud  be  more  fitting  if  you  'd  bring  him  into  the 
house,  and  let  his  aunt  know  about  :t,  instead  o'  whispering  in 
corners,  in  that  plotting,  underminding  way." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  "  we  '11  come  in  now." 

"  You  need  n't  stay  here,"  said  the  lady  to  Bob,  in  a  loud 
voice,  adapted  to  the  moral,  not  the  physical,  distance  between 
them.  "  We  don't  want  anything.  I  don't  deal  wi'  packmen. 
Mind  you  shut  the  gate  after  you." 

"  Stop  a  bit ;  not  so  fast,"  said  Mr.  Glegg ;  "  I  have  n't 
done  with  this  young  man  yet.  Come  in,  Tom  ;  come  in,"  he 
added,  stepping  in  at  the  French  window. 

"  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  in  a  fatal  tone,  "  if  you  're  going 
to  let  that  man  and  his  dog  in  on  my  carpet,  before  my  very 
face,  be  so  good  as  to  let  me  know.  A  wife 's  got  a  right  to 
ask  that,  I  hope." 

"  Don't  you  be  uneasy,  mum,"  said  Bob,  touching  his  cap. 
He  saw  at  once  that  Mrs.  Glegg  was  a  bit  of  game  worth 
running  down,  and  longed  to  be  at  the  sport ;  "  we  '11  stay  out 
upo'  the  gravel  here,  —  Mumps  and  me  will.  Mumps  knows 
his  company,  —  he  does.  I  might  hish  at  him  by  th'  hour 
together,  before  he  'd  fly  at  a  real  gentlewoman  like  you.  It 's 
wonderful  how  he  knows  which  is  the  good-looking  ladies ; 
and 's  partic'lar  fond  of  'em  when  they  've  good  shapes. 
Lors  !  "  added  Bob,  laying  down  his  pack  on  the  gravel,  "  it 's 
a  thousand  pities  such  u  lady  as  you  shouldn't  deal  with  a 
packman,  i'stead  o'  goiu'  into  these  newfangled  shops,  where 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  291 

there  's  half-a-dozen  fine  gents  wi'  their  chins  propped  up  wi'  a 
stiff  stock,  a-looking  like  bottles  wi'  ornamental  stoppers,  an' 
all  got  to  get  their  dinner  out  of  a  bit  o'  calico ;  it  Stan's  to  rea- 
son you  must  pay  three  times  the  price  you  pay  a  packman,  as 
is  the  nat'ral  way  o'  gettin'  goods,  — an'  pays  no  rent,  an'  is  n't 
forced  to  throttle  himself  till  the  lies  are  squeezed  out  on  him, 
whether  he  will  or  no.  But  lors  !  mum,  you  know  what  it  is 
better  nor  I  do,  —  you  can  see  through  them  shopmen,  I  '11  be 
bound." 

"  Yes,  I  reckon  I  can,  and  through  the  packmen  too," 
observed  Mrs.  Glegg,  intending  to  imply  that  Bob's  flattery 
had  produced  no  effect  on  her  •  while  her  husband,  standing 
behind  her  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  legs  apart, 
winked  and  smiled  with  conjugal  delight  at  the  probability  of 
his  wife's  being  circumvented. 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure,  mum,"  said  Bob.  "  Why,  you  must  ha' 
dealt  wi'  no  end  o'  packmen  when  you  war  a  young  lass,  — 
before  the  master  here  had  the  luck  to  set  eyes  on  you.  I 
know  where  you  lived,  I  do,  —  seen  th'  house  many  a  time,  — 
close  upon  Squire  Darleigh's,  —  a  stone  house  wi'  steps  —  " 

"  Ah,  that  it  had,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  pouring  out  the  tea. 
"  You  know  something  o'  my  family,  then  ?  Are  you  akin  to 
that  packman  with  a  squint  in  his  eye,  as  used  to  bring  th' 
Irish  linen  ?  " 

"  Look  you  there  now  ! "  said  Bob,  evasively.  "  Did  n't 
I  know  as  you  'd  remember  the  best  bargains  you  've  made 
in  your  life  was  made  wi'  packmen  ?  Why,  you  see  even  a 
squintin'  packman's  better  nor  a  shopman  as  can  see  straight. 
Lors  !  if  I  'd  had  the  luck  to  call  at  the  stone  house  wi'  my 
pack,  as  lies  here,"  —  stooping  and  thumping  the  bundle 
emphatically  with  his  fist,  —  "  an'  th'  handsome  young  lasses 
all  stannin'  out  on  the  stone  steps,  it  'ud  ha'  been  summat  like 
openin  a  pack,  that  would.  It  ;s  on'y  the  poor  houses  now  as  a 
packman  calls  on,  if  it  is  n't  for  the  sake  o'  the  sarvant-maids. 
They  !re  paltry  times,  these  are.  Why,  mum,  look  at  the  printed 
cottons  now,  an'  what  they  was  when  you  wore  'em,  —  why, 
you  would  n't  put  such  a  thing  on  now,  I  can  see.  It  must 
be  first-rate  quality,  the  manifactur  as  you  'd  buy,  —  summat 
as  'ud  wear  as  well  as  your  own  faitures." 

"  Yes,  better  quality  nor  any  you  're  like  to  carry ;  you  've 
got  nothing  first-rate  but  brazenness,  I  '11  be  bound,"  said  Mrs. 
Glegg,  with  a  triumphant  sense  of  her  insurmountable  sagac- 
ity. "  Mr.  Glegg,  are  you  going  ever  to  sit  down  to  your 
tea  ?  Tom,  f,here  's  a  cup  lor  you." 


292  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  You  speak  true  there,  mum,"  said  Bob.  "  My  pack  is  n't 
for  ladies  like  you.  The  time  's  gone  by  for  that.  Bargains 
picked  up  dirt  cheap  !  A  bit  o'  damage  here  an*  there,  as 
can  be  cut  out,  or  else  niver  seen  i'  the  wearin',  but  not  fit 
to  offer  to  rich  folks  as  can  pay  for  the  look  o'  things  as 
nobody  sees.  I  'm  not  the  man  as  'ud  offer  t'  open  my  pack 
to  you,  mum ;  no,  no  ;  I  'm  a  iinperent  chap,  as  you  say,  — 
these  times  makes  folks  iniperent,  —  but  I  'm  not  up  to  the 
mark  o'  that.'' 

"  Why,  what  goods  do  you  carry  in  your  pack?"  said  Mrs. 
Glegg.  "  Fine-coloured  things,  I  suppose,  —  shawls  an'  that '!  " 

"  All  sorts,  mum,  all  sorts,"  said  Bob,  — thumping  his  bundle ; 
"  but  let  us  say  no  more  about  that,  if  you  please.  I  'm  here 
upo'  Mr.  Tom's  business,  an'  I  'm  not  the  man  to  take  up  the 
time  wi'  my  own." 

"  And  pray,  what  is  this  business  as  is  to  be  kept  from 
me  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  who,  solicited  by  a  double  curiosity, 
was  obliged  to  let  the  one-half  wait. 

"  A  little  plan  o'  nephey  Tom's  here,"  said  good-natured  Mr. 
Glegg ;  "  and  not  altogether  a  bad  'un,  I  think.  A  little  plan 
for  making  money ;  that 's  the  right  sort  o'  plan  for  young 
folks  as  have  got  their  fortin  to  make,  eh,  Jane  ?  " 

"  But  I  hope  it  is  n't  a  plan  where  he  expects  iverything  to 
be  done  for  him  by  his  friends ;  that 's  what  the  young  folks 
think  of  mostly  nowadays.  And  pray,  what  has  this  packman 
got  to  do  wi'  what  goes  on  in  our  family  ?  Can't  you  speak 
for  yourself,  Tom,  and  let  your  aunt  know  things,  as  a  nephey 
should  ?  " 

"  This  is  Bob  Jakin,  aunt,"  said  Tom,  bridling  the  irritation 
that  aunt  Glegg's  voice  always  produced.  "  I  've  known  him 
ever  since  we  were  little  boys.  He 's  a  very  good  fellow,  and 
always  ready  to  do  me  a  kindness.  And  he  has  had  some 
experience  in  sending  goods  out,  —  a  small  part  of  a  cargo  as  a 
private  speculation ;  and  he  thinks  if  I  could  begin  to  do  a 
little  in  the  same  way,  I  might  make  some  money.  A  large 
interest  is  got  in  that  way." 

"Large  int'rest?"  said  aunt  Glegg,  with  eagerness;  "and 
what  do  you  call  large  int'rest  ?  " 

"Ten  or  twelve  per  cent,  Bob  says,  after  expenses  are 
paid." 

"  Then  why  was  n't  I  let  to  know  o'  such  things  before,  Mr. 
Glegg  ? "  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  turning  to  her  husband,  with  a 
deep  grating  tone  of  reproach.  "  Have  n't  you  allays  told  me 
as  there  was  no  getting  more  nor  five  per  cent  ?  " 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  293 

"Pooh,  pooh,  nonsense,  my  good  woman,"  said  Mr.  Glegg. 
"  You  could  n't  go  into  trade,  could  you  ?  You  can't  get  more 
than  five  per  cent  with  security.'' 

"  But  I  can  turn  a  bit  o'  money  for  you,  an'  welcome,  mum," 
said  Bob,  "  if  you  'd  like  to  risk  it,  —  not  as  there  's  any  risk 
to  speak  on.  But  if  you  'd  a  mind  to  lend  a  bit  o'  money  to 
Mr.  Tom,  he  'd  pay  you  six  or  seven  per  zent,  an'  get  a  trifle 
for  himself  as  Avell ;  an'  a  good-natur'd  lady  like  you  'ud  like 
the  feel  o'  the  money  better  if  your  nephey  took  part  on  it." 

"  What  do  you  say,  Mrs.  G.  ?  "  said  Mr.  Glegg.  "  I  've  a 
notion,  when  I  've  made  a  bit  more  inquiry,  as  I  shall  perhaps 
start  Tom  here  with  a  bit  of  a  nest-egg,  —  he  '11  pay  me  int'rest, 
you  know,  —  an'  if  you  've  got  some  little  sums  lyin'  idle 
twisted  up  in  a  stockin'  toe.  or  that  — " 

"  Mr.  Glegg,  it 's  beyond  iverything !  You  '11  go  and  give  in- 
formation to  the  tramps  next,  as  they  may  come  and  rob  me." 

"Well,  well,  as  I  was  sayin',  if  you  like  to  join  me  wi' 
twenty  pounds,  you  can  —  I'll  make  it  fifty.  That'll  be  a 
pretty  good  nest-egg,  eh,  Tom?  " 

"  You  're  not  counting  on  me,  Mr.  Glegg,  I  hope,"  said  his 
wife.  "You  could  do  fine  things  wi'  my  money,  I  don't 
doubt." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  rather  snappishly,  "then 
we  '11  do  without  you.  I  shall  go  with  you  to  see  this  Salt," 
he  added,  turning  to  Bob. 

"And  now,  I  suppose,  you'll  go  all  the  other  way,  Mr. 
Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  "  and  want  to  shut  me  out  o'  my  own 
nephey's  business.  I  never  said  I  would  n't  put  money  into 
it,  —  I  don't  say  as  it  shall  be  twenty  pounds,  though  you  're  so 
ready  to  say  it  for  me,  —  but  he  '11  see  some  day  as  his  aunt 's 
in  the  right  not  to  risk  the  money  she 's  saved  for  him  till  it 's 
proved  as  it  won't  be  lost." 

"  Ay,  that 's  a  pleasant  sort  o'  risk,  that  is,"  said  Mr.  Glegg, 
indiscreetly  winking  at  Tom,  who  could  n't  avoid  smiling.  But 
Bob  stemmed  the  injured  lady's  outburst. 

"Ay,  mum,"  he  said  admiringly,  "you  know  what's 
what  —  you  do.  An'  it 's  nothing  but  fair.  You  see  how  the 
first  bit  of  a  job  answers,  an'  then  you'll  come  down  hand- 
some. Lors,  it 's  a  fine  thing  to  hev  good  kin.  I  got  my  bit 
of  a  nest-egg,  as  the  master  calls  it,  all  by  my  own  sharp- 
ness, —  ten  suvreigns  it  was,  —  wi'  dousing  the  fire  at  Torry's 
mill,  an'  it 's  growed  an'  growed  by  a  bit  an'  a  bit,  till  I  'n  got 
a  matter  o'  thirty  poiind  to  lay  out,  besides  makin'  my  mother 
comf or'ble.  I  should  get  more,  on'y  I  'm  such  a  soft  wi'  the 


294  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSb. 

women, — I  can't  help  lettin'  'em  hev  such  good  bargains. 
There's  this  bundle,  now,"  thumping  it  lustily,  "any  other 
chap 'ml  nrike  a  pretty  penny  out  on  it.  But  me! — lors,  I 
shall  sell  'em  for  pretty  near  what  I  paid  for  'em." 

"  Have  you  got  a  bit  of  good  net,  now  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Glegg, 
in  a  patronising  tone,  moving  from  the  tea-table,  and  folding 
her  napkin. 

"  Eh,  mum,  not  what  you  'd  think  it  worth  your  while  to 
look  at.  I'd  scorn  to  show  it  you.  It  'ud  be  an  insult  to 
you." 

"But  let  me  see,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  still  patronising.  "If 
they  're  damaged  goods,  they  're  like  enough  to  be  a  bit  the 
better  quality." 

"No,  mum.  I  know  my  place,"  said  Bob,  lifting  up  his 
pack  and  shouldering  it.  "I'm  not  going  t' expose  the  low- 
ness  o'  my  trade  to  a  lady  like  }rou.  Packs  is  come  down  i' 
the  world ;  it  'ud  cut  you  to  th'  heart  to  see  the  difference. 
I  'm  at  your  sarvice,  sir,  when  you  've  a  mind  to  go  and  see 
Salt." 

"  All  in  good  time,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  really  unwilling  to  cut 
short  the  dialogue.  "  Are  you  wanted  at  the  wharf,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Xo,  sir ;  I  left  Stowe  in  my  place." 

"Come,  put  down  your  pack,  and  let  me  see,"  said  Mrs. 
Glegg,  drawing  a  chair  to  the  window,  and  seating  herself  with 
much  dignity. 

"  Don't  you  ask  it,  mum,"  said  Bob,  entreatingly. 

"  Make  no  more  words,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  severely,  "  but  do 
as  I  tell  yoii." 

"  Eh,  mum,  I  'm  loth,  that  I  am,"  said  Bob,  slowly  depos- 
iting his  pack  on  the  step,  and  beginning  to  untie  it  with 
unwilling  fingers.  "  But  what  you  order  shall  be  done  "  (much 
fumbling  in  pauses  between  the  sentences).  "It's  not  as 
you  '11  buy  a  single  thing  on  me,  —  I  'd  be  sorry  for  you  to  do 
:t,  — for  think  o'  them  poor  women  up  i'  the  villages  there,  as 
niver  stir  a  hundred  yards  from  home,  —  it  'ud  be  a  pity  for 
anybody  to  buy  up  their  bargains.  Lors,  it 's  as  good  as  a 
junketing  to  'em  when  they  see  me  wi'  my  pack,  an'  I  shall 
niver  pick  up  such  bargains  for  'em  again.  Least  ways,  I  've 
no  time  now,  for  I  'm  off  to  Laceham.  See  here  now,"  Bob 
went  on,  becoming  rapid  again,  and  holding  up  a  scarlet  wool- 
len kerchief  with  an  embroidered  wreath  in  the  corner ;  here 's 
a  thing  to  make  a  lass's  mouth  water,  an'  on'y  two  shil- 
lin'  —  an'  why  ?  Why,  'cause  there 's  a  bit  of  a  moth-hole  i' 
this  plain  end.  Lors,  I  think  the  moths  an'  the  mildew  was 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  295 

sent  by  Providence  o'  purpose  to  cheapen  the  goods  a  bit  for 
the  good-lookin'  women  as  han't  got  much  money.  If  it 
had  n't  been  for  the  moths,  now,  every  hankicher  on  'em  'ud 
ha'  gone  to  the  rich,  handsome  ladies,  like  you,  mum,  at  five 
shillin'  apiece,  —  not  a  farthin'  less ;  but  what  does  the  moth 
do  ?  Why,  it  nibbles  off  three  shillin'  o'  the  price  i'  no  time ; 
an'  then  a  packman  like  me  can  carry  't  to  the  poor  lasses  as 
live  under  the  dark  thack,  to  make  a  bit  of  a  blaze  for  'em. 
Lors,  it 's  as  good  as  a  fire,  to  look  at  such  a  hankicher ! " 

Bob  held  it  at  a  distance  for  admiration,  but  Mrs.  Glegg 
said  sharply,  — 

"  Yes,  but  nobody  wants  a  fire  this  time  o'  year.  Put  these 
coloured  things  by;  let  me  look  at  your  nets,  if  you've  got 
'em/' 

"Eh,  mum,  I  told  you  how  it  'ud  be,"  said  Bob,  flinging 
aside  the  coloured  things  with  an  air  of  desperation.  "  I 
knowed  it  'ud  turn  again'  you  to  look  at  such  paltry  articles 
as  I  carry.  Here 's  a  piece  o'  figured  muslin  now.  what 's  the 
use  o'  you  lookin'  at  it  ?  You  might  as  well  look  at  poor 
folks's  victual,  mum ;  it  'ud  on'y  take  away  your  appetite. 
There  's  a  yard  i'  the  middle  on't  as  the  pattern  's  all  missed, 
—  lors,  why,  it 's  a  muslin  as  the  Princess  Victoree  might  ha' 
wore;  but,"  added  Bob,  flinging  it  behind  him  on  to  the 
turf,  as  if  to  save  Mrs.  Glegg's  eyes,  "  it  '11  be  bought  up  by 
the  huckster's  wife  at  Fibb's  End, — that's  where  it'll  go  — 
ten  shillin'  for  the  whole  lot  —  ten  yards,  countin'  the  damaged 
un  —  five-an' -twenty  shillin'  'ud  ha'  been  the  price,  not  a 
penny  less .  But  I  '11  say  no  more,  mum ;  it 's  nothing  to  you, 
a  piece  o'  muslin  like  that ;  you  can  afford  to  pay  three  times 
the  money  for  a  thing  as  is  n't  half  so  good.  It 's  nets  you 
talked  on ;  well,  I  've  got  a  piece  as  'ull  serve  you  to  make  fun 
on  —  " 

"Bring  me  that  muslin,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "It's  a  buff; 
I'm  partial  to  buff." 

"Eh,  but  a  damaged  thing,"  said  Bob,  in  a  tone  of  depre- 
cating disgust.  "You'd 'do  nothing  with  it,  mum;  you'd 
give  it  to  the  cook,  I  know  you  would,  an'  it  'ud  be  a  pity,  — 
she'd  look  too  much  like  a  lady  in  it;  it's  unbecoming  for 
servants." 

"  Fetch  it,  and  let  me  see  you  measure  it,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg, 
authoritatively. 

Bob  obeyed  with  ostentatious  reluctance. 

"  See  what  there  is  over  measure ! "  he  said,  holding  forth 
the  extra  half-yard,  while  Mrs.  Glegg  was  busy  examining  the 


296  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

damaged  yard,  and  throwing  her  head  back  to  see  how  far 
the  fault  would  be  lost  on  a  distant  view. 

"  I  '11  give  you  six  shilling  for  it,"  she  said,  throwing  it 
down  with  the  air  of  a  person  who  mentions  an  ultimatum. 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  now,  mum,  as  it  'ud  hurt  your  feelings 
to  look  at  my  pack  ?  That  damaged  bit 's  turned  your 
stomach  now ;  I  see  it  has,"  said  Bob,  wrapping  the  muslin 
up  with  the  utmost  quickness,  and  apparently  about  to  fasten 
up  his  pack.  "  You  're  used  to  seein'  a  different  sort  o'  article 
carried  by  packmen,  when  you  lived  at  the  stone  house. 
Packs  is  come  down  i'  the  world ;  I  told  you  that :  my  goods 
are  for  common  folks.  Mrs.  Pepper  'ull  give  me  ten  shillin' 
for  that  muslin,  an'  be  sorry  as  I  did  n't  ask  her  more.  Such 
articles  answer  i'  the  wearin',  —  they  keep  their  colour  till 
the  threads  melt  away  i'  the  wash-tub,  an'  that  won't  be  while 
1  'm  a  young  un." 

"  Well,  seven  shilling,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg. 

"  Put  it  out  o'  your  mind,  mum,  now  do,"  said  Bob.  "  Here 's 
a  bit  o'  net,  then,  for  you  to  look  at  before  I  tie  up  my  pack, 
just  for  you  to  see  what  my  trade 's  come  to,  —  spotted  and 
sprigged,  you  see,  beautiful  but  yallow,  —  's  been  lyin'  by  an' 
got  the  wrong  colour.  I  could  niver  ha'  bought  such  net,  if 
it  had  n't  been  yallow.  Lors,  it 's  took  me  a  deal  o'  study  to 
know  the  vally  o'  such  articles ;  when  I  begun  to  carry  a 
pack,  I  was  as  ignirant  as  a  pig ;  net  or  calico  was  all  the 
same  to  me.  I  thought  them  things  the  most  vally  as  was 
the  thickest.  I  was  took  in  dreadful,  for  I  'in  a  straightfor- 
rard  chap,  —  up  to  no  tricks,  mum.  I  can  on'y  say  my  nose 
is  my  own,  for  if  I  went  beyond,  I  should  lose  myself  pretty 
quick.  An'  I  gev  five-an'-eightpence  for  that  piece  o'  net,  — 
if  I  was  to  tell  y'  anything  else  I  should  be  tellin'  you  fibs,  — 
an'  five-an'-eightpence  I  shall  ask  for  it,  not  a  penny  more, 
for  it's  a  woman's  article,  an'  I  like  to  'commodate  the 
women.  Five-an'-eightpence  for  six  yards,  —  as  cheap  as  if 
it  was  only  the  dirt  on  it  as  was  paid  for." 

"  I  don't  mind  having  three  yards  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg. 

"  Why,  there  's  but  six  altogether,"  said  Bob.  "  No,  mum, 
it  is  n't  worth  your  while  ;  you  can  go  to  the  shop  to-morrow 
an'  get  the  same  pattern  ready  whitened.  It 's  ou'y  three 
times  the  money ;  what 's  that  to  a  lady  like  you  ?  "  He  gave 
an  emphatic  tie  to  his  bundle. 

"  Come,  lay  me  out  that  muslin,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  Here 's 
eight  shilling  for  it." 

"You  will  be  jokin',  mum,"  said  Bob,  looking  up  with  a 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  297 

laughing  face  ;  "  I  see'd  you  was  a  pleasant  lady  when  I  fust 
come  to  the  winder." 

"  Well,  put  it  me  out,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  peremptorily. 

"  But  if  I  let  you  have  it  for  ten  shilling  muni,  you  '11  be  so 
good  as  not  tell  nobody.  I  should  be  a  laughin'-stock ;  the 
trade  'ud  hoot  me,  if  they  knowed  it.  I  'm  obliged  to  make 
believe  as  I  ask  more  nor  I  do  for  my  goods,  else  they  'd  find 
out  I  was  a  flat.  I  'in  glad  you  don't  insist  upo'  buyin'  the 
net,  for  then  I  should  ha'  lost  my  two  best  bargains  for 
Mrs.  Pepper  o'  Fibb's  End,  an'  she 's  a  rare  customer." 

"  Let  me  look  at  the  net  again,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  yearning 
after  the  cheap  spots  and  sprigs,  now  they  were  vanishing. 

"  Well,  I  can't  deny  you,  mum,"  said  Bob,  handing  it  out. 
"  Eh  !  see  what  a  pattern  now !  Real  Laceham  goods.  Now, 
this  is  the  sort  o'  article  I  'm  recommendin'  Mr.  Tom  to  send 
out.  Lors,  it 's  a  fine  thing  for  anybody  as  has  got  a  bit  6* 
money ;  these  Laceham  goods  'ud  make  it  breed  like  maggits. 
If  I  was  a  lady  wi'  a  bit  o'  money !  —  why,  I  know  one  as  put 
thirty  pound  into  them  goods,  —  a  lady  wi'  a  cork  leg,  but  as 
sharp,  —  you  would  n't  catch  her  runnin'  her  head  into  a  sack  ; 
she  'd  see  her  way  clear  out  o'  anything  afore  she  'd  be  in  a 
hurry  to  start.  Well,  she  let  out  thirty  pound  to  a  young 
man  in  the  drapering  line,  and  he  laid  it  out  i'  Laceham  goods, 
an'  a  shupercargo  o'  my  acquinetance  (not  Salt)  took  'em  out, 
an'  she  got  her  eight  per  zent  fust  go  off ;  an'  now  you  can't 
hold  her  but  she  must  be  sendin'  out  carguies  wi'  every  ship, 
till  she 's  gettin'  as  rich  as  a  Jew.  Bucks  her  name  is,  she 
does  n't  live  i'  this  town.  Now  then,  mum,  if  you  '11  please  to 
give  me  the  net  —  " 

"  Here  's  fifteen  shilling,  then,  for  the  two,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg. 
"  But  it 's  a  shameful  price." 

"  Nay,  mum,  you  '11  niver  say  that  when  you  're  upo'  your 
knees  i'  church  i'  five  years'  time.  I  'm  makin'  you  a  present 
o'  th'  articles  ;  I  am,  indeed.  That  eightpence  shaves  off  my 
profit  as  clean  as  a  razor.  Now  then,  sir,"  continued  Bob, 
shouldering  his  pack,  "if  you  please,  I'll  be  glad  to  go  and 
see  about  makin'  Mr.  Tom's  fortin.  Eh,  I  wish  I'd  got 
another  twenty  pound  to  lay  out  for  mi/sen ;  I  should  n't  stay 
to  say  nay  Catechism  afore  I  knowed  what  to  do  wi't." 

"  Stop  a  bit,  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  the  lady,  as  her  husband  took 
his  hat,  "you  never  will  give  me  the  chance  o'  speaking. 
You  '11  go  away  now,  and  finish  everything  about  this  business, 
and  come  back  and  tell  me  it 's  too  late  for  me  to  speak.  As 
if  I  was  n't  my  nephey's  own  aunt,  and  th'  head  o'  the  family 


THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

on  his  mother's  side !  and  laid  by  guineas,  all  full  weight,  foi 
him,  as  he  '11  know  who  to  respect  when  1  'm  laid  in  my 
coffin." 

••  \Vell,  Mrs.  G.,  say  what  you  mean,"  said  Mr.  G.,  hastily. 

"Well,  then,  1  desire  as  nothing  may  be  done  without  my 
knowing.  I  don't  say  as  I  sha'n't  venture  twenty  pounds,  if 
you  make  out  as  everything  's  right  and  safe.  And  if  I  do, 
Tom,"  concluded  Mrs.  Glegg,  turning  impressively  to  her 
nephew,  "I  hope  you  '11  allays  bear  it  in  mind  and  be  grateful 
for  such  an  aunt.  I  mean  you  to  pay  me  interest,  you  know  ;  1 
don't  approve  o'  giving;  we  niver  looked  for  that  in  my 
family." 

"Thank  you,  aunt,"  said  Tom,  rather  proudly.  "I  prefer 
having  the  money  only  lent  to  me." 

"  Very  well ;  that 's  the  Dodson  sperrit,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg, 
rising  to  get  her  knitting  with  the  sense  that  any  further 
remark  after  this  would  be  bathos. 

Salt  —  that  eminently  "  briny  chap  "  —  having  been  dis- 
covered in  a  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke  at  the  Anchor  Tavern, 
Mr.  Glegg  commenced  inquiries  which  turned  out  satisfactorily 
enough  to  warrant  the  advance  of  the  "nest-egg,"  to  which 
aunt  Glegg  contributed  twenty  pounds  ;  and  in  this  modest 
beginning  you  see  the  ground  of  a  fact  which  might  otherwise 
surprise  you;  namely,  Tom's  accumulation  of  a  fund,  unknown 
to  his  father,  that  promised  in  no  very  long  time  to  meet  the 
more  tardy  process  of  saving,  and  quite  cover  the  deficit. 
When  once  his  attention  had  been  turned  to  this  source  of 
gain,  Tom  determined  to  make  the  most  of  it,  and  lost  no 
opportunity  of  obtaining  information  and  extending  his  small 
enterprises.  In  not  telling  his  father,  he  was  influenced  by 
that  strange  mixture  of  opposite  feelings  which  often  gives 
equal  truth  to  those  who  blame  an  action  and  those  who 
admire  it,  —  partly,  it  was  that  disinclination  to  confidence 
which  is  seen  between  near  kindred,  that  family  repulsion 
which  spoils  the  most  sacred  relations  of  our  lives  ;  partly, 
it  was  the  desire  to  surprise  his  father  with  a  great  joy.  He 
did  not  see  that  it  would  have  been  better  to  soothe  the 
interval  with  a  new  hope,  and  prevent  the  delirium  of  a  too 
sudden  elation. 

At  the  time  of  Maggie's  first  meeting  with  Philip,  Tom  had 
already  nearly  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  his  own  capital ; 
and  while  they  were  walking  by  the  evening  light  in  the  Red 
Deeps,  he,  by  the  same  evening  light,  was  riding  into  Lace- 
ham,  proud  of  being  on  his  first  journey  on  behalf  of  Guest  & 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  299 

Co.,  and  revolving  in  his  niind  all  the  chances  that  by  the  end 
of  another  year  he  should  have  doubled  his  gains,  lifted  off 
the  obloquy  of  debt  from  his  father's  name,  and  perhaps  —  for 
he  should  be  twenty-one  —  have  got  a  new  start  for  himself, 
on  a  higher  platform  of  employment.  Did  he  not  deserve  it  ? 
He  was  quite  sure  that  he  did. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    WAVERING     BALANCE. 

I  SAID  that  Maggie  went  home  that  evening  from  the  Red 
Deeps  with  a  mental  conflict  already  begun.  You  have  seen 
clearly  enough,  in  her  interview  with  Philip,  what  that  con- 
flict was.  Here  suddenly  was  an  opening  in  the  rocky  wall 
which  shut  in  the  narrow  valley  of  humiliation,  where  all  her 
prospect  was  the  remote,  unfathonied  sky ;  and  some  of  the 
memory-haunting  earthly  delights  were  no  longer  out  of  her 
reach.  She  might  have  books,  converse,  affection ;  she  might 
hear  tidings  of  the  world  from  which  her  mind  had  not  yet 
lost  its  sense  of  exile ;  and  it  would  be  a  kindness  to  Philip 
too,  who  was  pitiable,  —  clearly  not  happy.  And  perhaps  here 
was  an  opportunity  indicated  for  making  her  mind  more  wor- 
thy of  its  highest  service ;  perhaps  the  noblest,  completest 
devoutness  could  hardly  exist  without  some  width  of  knowl- 
edge ;  must  she  always  live  in  this  resigned  imprisonment  ? 
It  was  so  blameless,  so  good  a  thing  that  there  should  be 
friendship  between  her  and  Philip ;  the  motives  that  forbade 
it  were  so  unreasonable,  so  unchristian !  But  the  severe 
monotonous  warning  came  again  and  again,  —  that  she  was 
losing  the  simplicity  and  clearness  of  her  life  by  admitting  a 
ground  of  concealment ;  and  that,  by  forsaking  the  simple  rule 
of  renunciation,  she  was  throwing  herself  under  the  seductive 
guidance  of  illimitable  wants.  She  thought  she  had  won 
strength  to  obey  the  warning  before  she  allowed  herself  the 
next  week  to  turn  her  steps  in  the  evening  to  the  Red  Deeps. 
But  while  she  was  resolved  to  say  an  affectionate  farewell  to 
Philip,  how  she  looked  forward  to  that  evening  walk  in  the 
still,  fleckered  shade  of  the  hollows,  away  from  all  that  was 
harsh  and  unlovely  j  to  the  affectionate,  admiring  looks  that 


300  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

would  meet  her;  to  the  sense  of  comradeship  that  childish 
memories  would  give  to  wiser,  older  talk  ;  to  the  certainty  that 
Philip  would  care  to  hear  everything  she  said,  which  no  one 
else  cared  for !  It  was  a  half-hour  that  it  would  be  very  hard 
to  turn  her  back  upon,  with  the  sense  that  there  would  be  no 
other  like  it.  Yet  she  said  what  she  meant  to  say ;  she  looked 
firm  as  well  as  sad. 

"Philip,  I  have  made  up  my  mind;  it  is  right  that  we 
should  give  each  other  up,  in  everything  but  memory.  I 
could  not  see  you  without  concealment  —  stay,  I  know  what 
you  are  going  to  say,  —  it  is  other  people's  wrong  feelings  that 
make  concealment  necessary ;  but  concealment  is  bad,  however 
it  may  be  caused.  I  feel  that  it  would  be  bad  for  me,  for  us 
both.  And  then,  if  our  secret  were  discovered,  there  would 
be  nothing  but  misery,  —  dreadful  anger ;  and  then  we  must 
part  after  all,  and  it  would  be  harder,  when  we  were  used  to 
seeing  each  other." 

Philip's  face  had  flushed,  and  there  was  a  momentary  eager- 
ness of  expression,  as  if  he  had  been  about  to  resist  this  deci- 
sion with  all  his  might.  But  he  controlled  himself,  and  said, 
with  assumed  calmness,  "Well,  Maggie,  if  we  must  part,  let 
us  try  and  forget  it  for  one  half-hour ;  let  us  talk  together  a 
little  while,  for  the  last  time." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  Maggie  felt  no  reason  to  withdraw 
it ;  his  quietness  made  her  all  the  more  sure  she  had  given 
him  great  pain,  and  she  wanted  to  show  him  how  unwill- 
ingly she  had  given  it.  They  walked  together  hand  in  hand 
in  silence. 

"  Let  us  sit  down  in  the  hollow,"  said  Philip,  "  where  we 
stood  the  last  time.  See  how  the  dog-roses  have  strewed  the 
ground,  and  spread  their  opal  petals  over  it." 

They  sat  down  at  the  roots  of  the  slanting  ash. 

"I've  begun  my  picture  of  you  among  the  Scotch  firs, 
Maggie,"  said  Philip,  "  so  you  must  let  me  study  your  face  a 
little,  while  you  stay,  —  since  I  am  not  to  see  it  again.  Please 
turn  your  head  this  way." 

This  was  said  in  an  entreating  voice,  and  it  would  have 
been  very  hard  of  Maggie  to  refuse.  The  full,  lustrous  face, 
with  the  bright  black  coronet,  looked  down  like  that  of  a 
divinity  well  pleased  to  be  worshipped,  on  the  pale-hued, 
small-featured  face  that  was  turned  up  to  it. 

"  I  shall  be  sitting  for  my  second  portrait,  then,"  she  said, 
smiling.  "  Will  it  be  larger  than  the  other  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,  much  larger.      It  is  an  oil-painting.     You  will 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  301 

look  like  a  tall  Hamadryad,  dark  and  strong  and  noble,  just 
issued  from  one  of  the  fir-trees,  when  the  stems  are  casting 
their  afternoon  shadows  on  the  grass." 

"  You  seem  to  think  more  of  painting  than  of  anything 
now,  Philip?" 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  said  Philip,  rather  sadly ;  "  but  I  think  of 
too  many  things,  —  sow  all  sorts  of  seeds,  and  get  no  great 
harvest  from  any  one  of  them.  I'm  cursed  with  suscepti- 
bility in  every  direction,  and  effective  faculty  in  none.  I  care 
for  painting  and  music ;  I  care  for  classic  literature,  and 
mediaeval  literature,  and  modern  literature ;  I  flutter  all  ways, 
and  fly  in  none." 

"  But  surely  that  is  a  happiness  to  have  so  many  tastes,  —  to 
enjoy  so  many  beautiful  things,  when  they  are  within  your 
reach,"  said  Maggie,  musingly.  "  It  always  seemed  to  me  a 
sort  of  clever  stupidity  only  to  have  one  sort  of  talent,  —  almost 
like  a  carrier-pigeon." 

"  It  might  be  a  happiness  to  have  many  tastes  if  I  were  like 
other  men,"  said  Philip,  bitterly.  "  I  might  get  some  power 
and  distinction  by  mere  mediocrity,  as  they  do;  at  least  I 
should  get  those  middling  satisfactions  which  make  men  con- 
tented to  do  without  great  ones.  I  might  think  society  at  St. 
Ogg's  agreeable  then.  But  nothing  could  make  life  worth  the 
purchase-money  of  pain  to  me,  but  some  faculty  that  would  lift 
me  above  the  dead  level  of  provincial  existence.  Yes,  there 
is  one  thing,  — a  passion  answers  as  well  as  a  faculty." 

Maggie  did  not  hear  the  last  words ;  she  was  struggling 
against  the  consciousness  that  Philip's  words  had  set  her  own 
discontent  vibrating  again  as  it  used  to  do. 

"  I  understand  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  "  though  I  know 
so  much  less  than  you  do.  I  used  to  think  I  could  never  bear 
life  if  it  kept  on  being  the  same  every  day,  and  I  must  always 
be  doing  things  of  no  consequence,  and  never  know  anything 
greater.  But,  dear  Philip,  I  think  we  are  only  like  children, 
that  some  one  who  is  wiser  is  taking  care  of.  Is  it  not  right 
to  resign  ourselves  entirely,  whatever  may  be  denied  us  ? 
I  have  found  great  peace  in  that  for  the  last  two  or  three  years, 
even  joy  in  subduing  my  own  will." 

"Yes,  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  vehemently;  "and  you  are 
shutting  yourself  up  in  a  narrow,  self-delusive  fanaticism, 
which  is  only  a  way  of  escaping  pain  by  starving  into  dul- 
ness  all  the  highest  powers  of  your  nature.  Joy  and  peace 
are  not  resignation ;  resignation  is  the  willing  endurance  of  a 
pain  that  is  not  allayed,  that  you  don't  expect  to  be  allayed. 


302  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Stupefaction  is  not  resignation ;  and  it  is  stupefaction  to  re- 
main in  ignorance,  —  to  shut  up  all  the  avenues  by  which  the 
life  of  your  fellow-men  might  become  known  to  you.  I  am 
not  resigned ;  1  am  not  sure  that  life  is  long  enough  to  learn 
that  lesson.  You  are  not  resigned;  you  are  only  trying  to 
stupefy  yourself." 

Maggie's  lips  trembled ;  she  felt  there  was  some  truth  in 
what  Philip  said,  and  yet  there  was  a  deeper  consciousness 
that,  for  any  immediate  application  it  had  to  her  conduct, 
it  was  no  better  than  falsity.  Her  double  impression  corre- 
sponded to  the  double  impulse  of  the  speaker.  Philip  seriously 
believed  what  he  said,  but  he  said  it  with  vehemence  because 
it  made  an  argument  against  the  resolution  that  opposed  his 
wishes.  But  Maggie's  face,  made  more  childlike  by  the  gath- 
ering tears,  touched  him  with  a  tenderer,  less  egoistic  feeling. 
He  took  her  hand  and  said  gently,  — 

"  Don't  let  us  think  of  such  things  in  this  short  half-hour, 
Maggie.  Let  us  only  care  about  being  together.  We  shall  be 
friends  in  spite  of  separation.  We  shall  always  think  of  each 
other.  I  shall  be  glad  to  live  as  long  as  you  are  alive,  because 
I  shall  think  there  may  always  come  a  time  when  I  can  — 
when  you  will  let  me  help  you  in  some  way." 

"  What  a  dear,  good  brother  you  would  have  been,  Philip," 
said  Maggie,  smiling  through  the  haze  of  tears.  "  I  think  you 
would  have  made  as  much  fuss  about  me,  and  been  as  pleased 
for  me  to  love  you,  as  would  have  satisfied  even  me.  You 
would  have  loved  me  well  enough  to  bear  with  me,  and 
forgive  me  everything.  That  was  what  I  always  longed 
that  Tom  should  do.  I  was  never  satisfied  with  a  little  of 
anything.  That  is  why  it  is  better  for  me  to  do  without 
earthly  happiness  altogether.  I  never  felt  that  I  had  enough 
music,  —  I  wanted  more  instruments  playing  together ;  I 
wanted  voices  to  be  fuller  and  deeper.  Do  you  ever  sing 
now,  Philip  ? "  she  added  abruptly,  as  if  she  had  forgotten 
what  went  before. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  every  day,  almost.  But  my  voice  is  only 
middling,  like  everything  else  in  me." 

"Oh,  sing  me  something, — just  one  song.  I  may  listen 
to  that  before  I  go,  —  something  you  used  to  sing  at  Lorton 
on  a  Saturday  afternoon,  when  we  had  the  drawing-room  all 
to  ourselves,  and  I  put  my  apron  over  my  head  to  listen." 

"/  know,"  said  Philip;  and  Maggie  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands  while  he  sang  sotto  voce,  "Love  in  her  eyes  sits 
playing, "  and  then  said,  "  That 's  it,  is  n't  it  ?  " 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  303 

"  Oh  no,  I  won't  stay,"  said  Maggie,  starting  up.  "  It  will 
only  haunt  me.  Let  us  walk,  Philip.  I  must  go  home." 

She  moved  away,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  rise  and  follow 
her. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance,  "  don't  persist 
in  this  wilful,  senseless  privation.  It  makes  me  wretched  to 
see  you  benumbing  and  cramping  your  nature  in  this  way. 
You  were  so  full  of  life  when  you  were  a  child;  I  thought 
you  would  be  a  brilliant  woman,  —  all  wit  and  bright  imag- 
ination. And  it  flashes  out  in  your  face  still,  until  you  draw 
that  veil  of  dull  quiescence  over  it." 

"Why  do  you  speak  so  bitterly  to  me,  Philip?"  said 
Maggie. 

"Because  I  foresee  it  will  not  end  well;  you  can  never 
carry  on  this  self-torture." 

"  I  shall  have  strength  given  me,"  said  Maggie,  tremulously. 

"  No,  you  will  not,  Maggie ;  no  one  has  strength  given  to 
do  what  is  unnatural.  It  is  mere  cowardice  to  seek  safety 
in  negations.  No  character  becomes  strong  in  that  way. 
You  will  be  thrown  into  the  world  some  day,  and  then 
every  rational  satisfaction  of  your  nature  that  you  deny 
now  will  assault  you  like  a  savage  appetite." 

Maggie  started  and  paused,  looking  at  Philip  with  alarm  in 
her  face. 

"  Philip,  how  dare  you  shake  me  in  this  way  ?  You  are  a 
tempter." 

"  No,  I  am  not ;  but  love  gives  insight,  Maggie,  and  insight 
often  gives  foreboding.  Listen  to  me,  —  let  me  supply  you 
with  books ;  do  let  me  see  you  sometimes,  —  be  your  brother 
and  teacher,  as  you  said  at  Lorton.  It  is  less  wrong  that  you 
should  see  me  than  that  you  should  be  committing  this  long 
suicide." 

Maggie  felt  unable  to  speak.  She  shook  her  head  and 
walked  on  in  silence,  till  they  came  to  the  end  of  the  Scotch 
firs,  and  she  put  out  her  hand  in  sign  of  parting. 

"  Do  you  banish  me  from  this  place  for  ever,  then,  Maggie  ? 
Surely  I  may  come  and  walk  in  it  sometimes  ?  If  I  meet  you 
by  chance,  there  is  no  concealment  in  that  ?  " 

It  is  the  moment  when  our  resolution  seems  about  to  become 
irrevocable  —  when  the  fatal  iron  gates  are  about  to  close  upon 
us  —  that  tests  our  strength.  Then,  after  hours  of  clear  rea- 
soning and  firm  conviction,  we  snatch  at  any  sophistry  that 
will  nullify  our  long  struggles,  and  bring  us  the  defeat  that 
we  love  better  than  victory. 


304  THE  MILL    ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Maggie  felt  her  heart  leap  at  this  subterfuge  of  Philip's, 
and  there  passed  over  her  face  that  almost  imperceptible 
shock  which  accompanies  any  relief.  He  saw  it,  and  they 
parted  in  silence. 

Philip's  sense  of  the  situation  was  too  complete  for  him  not 
to  be  visited  with  glancing  fears  lest  he  had  been  intervening 
too  presumptuously  in  the  action  of  Maggie's  conscience,  per- 
haps for  a  selfish  end.  But  no!  —  he  persuaded  himself  his 
end  was  not  selfish.  He  had  little  hope  that  Maggie  would 
ever  return  the  strong  feeling  he  had  for  her;  and  it  must 
be  better  for  Maggie's  future  life,  when  these  petty  family 
obstacles  to  her  freedom  had  disappeared,  that  the  present 
should  not  be  entirely  sacrificed,  and  that  she  should  have 
some  opportunity  of  culture,  — some  interchange  with  a  mind 
above  the  vulgar  level  of  those  she  was  now  condemned  to 
live  with.  If  we  only  look  far  enough  off  for  the  consequence 
of  our  actions,  we  can  always  find  some  point  in  the  combination 
of  results  by  which  those  actions  can  be  justified ;  by  adopting 
the  point  of  view  of  a  Providence  who  arranges  results,  or  of 
a  philosopher  who  traces  them,  we  shall  find  it  possible  to 
obtain  perfect  complacency  in  choosing  to  do  what  is  most 
agreeable  to  us  in  the  present  moment.  And  it  was  in  this 
way  that  Philip  justified  his  subtle  efforts  to  overcome  Mag- 
gie's true  prompting  against  a  concealment  that  would  intro- 
duce doubleuess  into  her  own  mind,  and  might  cause  new 
misery  to  those  who  had  the  primary  natural  claim  on  her. 
But  there  was  a  surplus  of  passion  in  him  that  made  him  half 
independent  of  justifying  motives.  His  longing  to  see  Maggie, 
and  make  an  element  in  her  life,  had  in  it  some  of  that  savage 
impulse  to  snatch  an  offered  joy  which  springs  from  a  life  in 
which  the  mental  and  bodily  constitution  have  made  pain  pre- 
dominate. He  had  not  his  full  share  in  the  common  good  of 
men;  he  could  not  even  pass  muster  with  the  insignificant, 
but  must  be  singled  out  for  pity,  and  excepted  from  what  was 
a  matter  of  course  with  others.  Even  to  Maggie  he  was  JMI 
exception ;  it  was  clear  that  the  thought  of  his  being  her  lover 
had  never  entered  her  mind. 

Do  not  think  too  hardly  of  Philip.  Ugly  and  deformed 
people  have  great  need  of  unusual  virtues,  because  they  are 
likely  to  be  extremely  uncomfortable  without  them ;  but  the 
theory  that  unusual  virtues  spring  by  a  direct  consequence  out 
of  personal  disadvantages,  as  animals  get  thicker  wool  in  severe 
climates,  is  perhaps  a  little  overstrained.  The  temptations  of 
beauty  are  much  dwelt  upon,  but  I  fancy  they  only  bear  the 


WHEAT  AND    TARES. 

same  relation  to  those  of  ugliness,  as  the  temptation  to  excess 
at  a  feast,  where  the  delights  are  varied  for  eye  and  ear  as 
well  as  palate,  bears  to  the  temptations  that  assail  the  des- 
peration of  hunger.  Does  not  the  Hunger  Tower  stand  as 
the  type  of  the  utmost  trial  to  what  is  human  in  us  ? 

Philip  had  never  been  soothed  by  that  mother's  love  which 
flows  out  to  us  in  the  greater  abundance  because  our  need  is 
greater,  which  clings  to  us  the  more  tenderly  because  we 
are  the  less  likely  to  be  winners  in  the  game  of  life  ;  and 
the  sense  of  his  father's  affection  and  indulgence  towards 
him  was  marred  by  the  keener  perception  of  his  father's 
faults.  Kept  aloof  from  all  practical  life  as  Philip  had 
been,  and  by  nature  half  feminine  in  sensitiveness,  he  had 
some  of  the  woman's  intolerant  repulsion  towards  world- 
liness  and  the  deliberate  pursuit  of  sensual  enjoyment  ; 
and  this  one  strong  natural  tie  in  his  life,  —  his  relation 
as  a  son,  —  was  like  an  aching  limb  to  him.  Perhaps  there 
is  inevitably  something  morbid  in  a  human  being  who  is 
in  any  way  unfavourably  excepted  from  ordinary  conditions, 
until  the  good  force  has  had  time  to  triumph ;  and  it  has 
rarely  had  time  for  that  at  two-and-twenty.  That  force 
was  present  in  Philip  in  much  strength,  but  the  sun  him- 
self looks  feeble  through  the  morning  mists. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

ANOTHER   LOVE-SCENE. 

EARLY  in  the  following  April,  nearly  a  year  after  that 
dubious  parting  you  have  just  witnessed,  you  may,  if  you  like, 
again  see  Maggie  entering  the  Red  Deeps  through  the  group 
of  Scotch  firs.  But  it  is  early  afternoon  and  not  evening,  and 
the  edge  of  sharpness  in  the  spring  air  makes  her  draw  her 
large  shawl  close  about  her  and  trip  along  rather  quickly ; 
though  she  looks  round,  as  usual,  that  she  may  take  in  the 
sight  of  her  beloved  trees.  There  is  a  more  eager,  inquiring 
look  in  her  eyes  than  there  was  last  June,  and  a  smile  is 
hovering  about  her  lips,  as  if  some  playful  speech  were 
awaiting  the  right  hearer.  The  hearer  was  not  long  in 
appearing. 

20 


306  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"Take  back  your  Corinne"  said  Maggie,  drawing  a  book 
from  under  her  shawl.  "You  were  right  in  telling  me  she 
would  do  me  no  good ;  but  you  were  wrong  in  thinking  I 
should  wish  to  be  like  her." 

"  Would  n't  you  really  like  to  be  a  tenth  Muse,  then, 
Maggie  ?  "  said  Philip,  looking  up  in  her  face  as  we  look 
at  a  first  parting  in  the  clouds  that  promises  us  a  bright 
heaven  once  more. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Maggie,  laughing.  "The  Muses  were 
uncomfortable  goddesses,  I  think,  —  obliged  always  to  carry 
rolls  and  musical  instruments  about  with  them.  If  I  carried 
a  harp  in  this  climate,  you  know,  I  must  have  a  green  baize 
cover  for  it;  and  I  should  be  sure  to  leave  it  behind  me  by 
mistake." 

"  You  agree  with  me  in  not  liking  Corinne,  then  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  finish  the  book,"  said  Maggie.  "  As  soon  as  I 
came  to  the  blond-haired  young  lady  reading  in  the  park,  I 
shut  it  up,  and  determined  to  read  no  further.  I  foresaw 
that  that  light-cornplexioned  girl  would  win  away  all  the  love 
from  Corinne  and  make  her  miserable.  I  'm  determined  to 
read  no  more  books  where  the  blond-haired  women  carry 
away  all  the  happiness.  I  should  begin  to  have  a  prejudice 
against  them.  If  you  could  give  me  some  story,  now,  where 
the  dark  woman  triumphs,  it  would  restore  the  balance.  I 
want  to  avenge  Rebecca  and  Flora  Maclvor  and  Minna,  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  dark  unhappy  ones.  Since  you  are  my 
tutor,  you  ought  to  preserve  my  mind  from  prejudices ;  you 
are  always  arguing  against  prejudices." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  will  avenge  the  dark  women  in  your 
own  person,  and  carry  away  all  the  love  from  your  cousin 
Lucy.  She  is  sure  to  have  some  handsome  young  man  of 
St.  Ogg's  at  her  feet  now ;  and  you  have  only  to  shine  upon 
him,  —  your  fair  little  cousin  will  be  quite  quenched  in  your 
beams." 

"  Philip,  that  is  not  pretty  of  you,  to  apply  my  nonsense  to 
anything  real,". said  Maggie,  looking  hurt.  "As  if  I,  with  my 
old  gowns  and  want  of  all  accomplishments,  could  be  a  rival 
of  dear  little  Lucy, — who  knows  and  does  all  sorts  of  charming 
things,  and  is  ten  times  prettier  than  I  am,  —  even  if  I  were 
odious  and  base  enough  to  wish  to  be  her  rival.  Besides,  I 
never  go  to  aunt  Deane's  when  any  one  is  there ;  it  is  only 
because  dear  Lucy  is  good,  and  loves  me,  that  she  comes  to 
see  me,  and  will  have  me  go  to  see  her  sometimes." 

'•'  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  with  surprise,  "  it  is  not  like  you  to 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  307 

take  playfulness  literally.  You  must  have  been  in  St.  Ogg's 
this  morning,  and  brought  away  a  slight  infection  of  dulness." 

"Well,"  said  Maggie,  smiling,  "if  you  meant  that  for  a 
joke,  it  was  a  poor  one ;  but  I  thought  it  was  a  very  good 
reproof.  I  thought  you  wanted  to  remind  me  that  I  am 
vain,  and  wish  every  one  to  admire  me  most.  But  it  is  n't 
for  that  that  I'm  jealous  for  the  dark  women,  —  not  because 
I  'm  dark  myself ;  it 's  because  I  always  care  the  most  about 
the  unhappy  people.  If  the  blond  girl  were  forsaken,  I  should 
like  her  best.  I  always  take  the  side  of  the  rejected  lover  in 
the  stories." 

"  Then  you  would  never  have  the  heart  to  reject  one  your- 
self, should  you,  Maggie  ?  "  said  Philip,  flushing  a  little. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie,  hesitatingly.  Then  with  a 
bright  smile,  "  I  think  perhaps  I  could  if  he  were  very  con- 
ceited ;  and  yet,  if  he  got  extremely  humiliated  afterwards,  1 
should  relent." 

"  I  've  often  wondered,  Maggie,"  Philip  said,  with  some 
effort,  "  whether  you  would  n't  really  be  more  likely  to 
love  a  man  that  other  women  were  not  likely  to  love." 

"  That  would  depend  on  what  they  did  n't  like  him  for," 
said  Maggie,  laughing.  "He  might  be  very  disagreeable. 
He  might  look  at  me  through  an  eye-glass  stuck  in  his 
eye,  making  a  hideous  face,  as  young  Torry  does.  I  should 
think  other  women  are  not  fond  of  that ;  but  I  never  felt  any 
pity  for  young  Torry.  I  've  never  any  pity  for  conceited 
people,  because  I  think  they  carry  their  comfort  about  with 
them." 

"  But  suppose,  Maggie,  —  suppose  it  was  a  man  who  was  not 
conceited,  who  felt  he  had  nothing  to  be  conceited  about; 
who  had  been  marked  from  childhood  for  a  peculiar  kind  of 
suffering,  and  to  whom  you  were  the  day-star  of  his  life; 
who  loved  you,  worshipped  you,  so  entirely  that  he  felt  it 
happiness  enough  for  him  if  you  would  let  him  see  you  at  rare 
moments  —  " 

Philip  paused  with  a  pang  of  dread  lest  his  confession 
should  cut  short  this  very  happiness,  —  a  pang  of  the  same 
dread  that  had  kept  his  love  mute  through  long  months.  A 
rush  of  self-consciousness  told  him  that  he  was  besotted  to 
have  said  all  this.  Maggie's  manner  this  morning  had  been 
as  unconstrained  and  indifferent  as  ever. 

But  she  was  not  looking  indifferent  now.  Struck  with  the 
unusual  emotion  in  Philip's  tone,  she  had  turned  quickly  to 
look  at  him ;  and  as  he  went  on  speaking,  a  great  change  came 


308  THE  MILL   ON    THE  FLOSS. 

over  her  face,  —  a  flush  and  slight  spasm  of  the  features,  such 
as  we  see  in  people  who  hear  some  news  that  will  require 
them  to  readjust  their  conceptions  of  the  past.  She  wcis 
quite  silent,  and  walking  on  towards  the  trunk  of  a  fallen 
tree,  she  sat  down,  as  if  she  had  no  strength  to  spare  for 
her  muscles.  She  was  trembling. 

"  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  getting  more  and  more  alarmed  in 
every  fresh  moment  of  silence,  "1  was  a  fool  to  say  it; 
forget  that  I  've  said  it.  I  shall  be  contented  if  things  can 
be  as  they  were." 

The  distress  with  which  he  spoke  urged  Maggie  to  say 
something.  "I  am  so  surprised,  Philip;  I  had  not  thought 
of  it."  And  the  effort  to  say  this  brought  the  tears  down 
too. 

"  Has  it  made  you  hate  me,  Maggie  ? "  said  Philip,  im- 
petuously. "  Do  you  think  I  'in  a  presumptuous  fool  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Philip  ! "  said  Maggie,  "  how  can  you  think  I  have 
such  feelings  ?  As  if  I  were  not  grateful  for  any  love. 
But  —  but  I  had  never  thought  of  your  being  my  lover.  It 
seemed  so  far  off  —  like  a  dream  —  only  like  one  of  the 
stories  one  imagines  —  that  I  should  ever  have  a  lover." 

"  Then  can  you  bear  to  think  of  me  as  your  lover,  Maggie  ?  " 
said  Philip,  seating  himself  by  her,  and  taking  her  hand,  in 
the  elation  of  a  sudden  hope.  "  Do  you  love  me  ?  " 

Maggie  turned  rather  pale;  this  direct  question  seemed 
not  easy  to  answer.  But  her  eyes  met  Philip's,  which  were 
in  this  moment  liquid  and  beautiful  with  beseeching  love. 
She  spoke  with  hesitation,  yet  with  sweet,  simple,  girlish 
tenderness. 

"I  think  I  could  hardly  love  any  one  better;  there  is 
nothing  but  what  I  love  you  for."  She  paused  a  little 
while,  and  then  added,  "But  it  will  be  better  for  us  not 
to  say  any  more  about  it,  won't  it,  dear  Philip  ?  You 
know  we  couldn't  even  be  friends,  if  our  friendship  were 
discovered.  I  have  never  felt  that  I  was  right  in  giving 
way  about  seeing  you,  though  it  has  been  so  precious 
to  me  in  some  ways ;  and  now  the  fear  comes  upon  me 
strongly  again,  that  it  will  lead  to  evil." 

"But  no  evil  has  come,  Maggie;  and  if  you  had  been 
guided  by  that  fear  before,  you  would  only  have  lived 
through  another  dreary,  benumbing  year,  instead  of  reviv- 
ing into  your  real  self." 

Maggie  shook  her  head.  "  It  has  been  very  sweet,  I 
know,  —  all  the  talking  together,  and  the  books,  and  the 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  309 

feeling  that  I  had  the  walk  to  look  forward  to,  when  I  could 
tell  you  the  thoughts  that  had  come  into  my  head  while  I  was 
away  from  you.  But  it  has  made  me  restless;  it  has  made 
me  think  a  great  deal  about  the  world ;  and  I  have  impatient 
thoughts  again,  —  I  get  weary  of  my  home  ;  and  then  it  cuts 
me  to  the  heart  afterwards,  that  I  should  ever  have  felt  weary 
of  my  father  and  mother.  I  think  what  you  call  being  be- 
numbed was  better  —  better  for  me  —  for  then  my  selfish  de- 
sires were  benumbed." 

Philip  had  risen  again,  and  was  walking  backwards  and 
forwards  impatiently. 

"No,  Maggie,  you  have  wrong  ideas  of  self-conquest,  as 
I've  often  told  you.  What  you  call  self-conquest  —  blind- 
ing and  deafening  yourself  to  all  but  one  train  of  impres- 
sions—  is  only  the  culture  of  monomania  in  a  nature  like 
yours." 

He  had  spoken  with  some  irritation,  but  now  he  sat  down 
by  her  again  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Don't  think  of  the  past  now,  Maggie  ;  think  only  of  our 
love.  If  you  can  really  cling  to  me  with  all  your  heart,  every 
obstacle  will  be  overcome  in  time  ;  we  need  only  wait.  I  can 
live  on  hope.  Look  at  me,  Maggie  ;  tell  me  again  it  is  possi- 
ble for  you  to  love  me.  Don't  look  away  from  me  to  that 
cloven  tree ;  it  is  a  bad  omen." 

She  turned  her  large  dark  glance  upon  him  with  a  sad 
smile. 

"  Come,  Maggie,  say  one  kind  word,  or  else  you  were  better 
to  me  at  Lorton.  You  asked  me  if  I  should  like  you  to  kiss 
me,  —  don't  you  remember  ?  —  and  you  promised  to  kiss  me 
when  you  met  me  again.  You  never  kept  the  promise." 

The  recollection  of  that  childish  time  came  as  a  sweet  re- 
lief to  Maggie.  It  made  the  present  moment  less  strange 
to  her.  She  kissed  him  almost  as  simply  and  quietly  as 
she  had  done  when  she  was  twelve  years  old.  Philip's  eyes 
flashed  with  delight,  but  his  next  words  were  words  of  dis- 
content. 

"  You  don't  seem  happy  enough,  Maggie ;  you  are  forcing 
yourself  to  say  you  love  me,  out  of  pity." 

"No,  Philip,"  said  Maggie,  shaking  her  head,  in  her  old 
(•hildish  way  ;  "  I  'm  telling  you  the  truth.  It  is  all  new  and 
strange  to  me ;  but  I  don't  think  I  could  love  any  one  better 
than  I  love  you.  I  should  like  always  to  live  with  you  —  to 
make  you  happy.  I  have  always  been  happy  when  I  have 
been  with  you.  There  is  only  one  thing  I  will  not  do  for  your 


310  THE   MILL    ON  THE  FLOSS. 

sake ;  I  will  never  do  anything  to  wound  my  father. 
must  never  ask  that  from  me." 

"  No,  Maggie,  I  will  ask  nothing ;  I  will  bear  everything ; 
I  '11  wait  another  year  only  for  a  kiss,  if  you  will  only  give 
me  the  first  place  in  your  heart." 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  smiling,  "  I  won't  make  you  wait  so 
long  as  that."  But  then,  looking  serious  again,  she  added,  as 
she  rose  from  her  seat,  — 

"  But  what  would  your  own  father  say,  Philip  ?  Oh,  it  is 
quite  impossible  we  can  ever  be  more  than  friends,  —  brother 
and  sister  in  secret,  as  we  have  been.  Let  us  give  up  thinking 
of  everything  else." 

"  No,  Maggie,  I  can't  give  you  up,  —  unless  you  are  deceiv- 
ing me ;  unless  you  really  only  care  for  me  as  if  I  were  your 
brother.  Tell  me  the  truth."" 

"  Indeed  I  do,  Philip.  What  happiness  have  I  ever  had  so 
great  as  being  with  you,  —  since  I  was  a  little  girl,  —  the  days 
Tom  was  good  to  me  ?  And  your  mind  is  a  sort  of  world  to 
me  ;  you  can  tell  me  all  I  want  to  know.  I  think  I  should 
never  be  tired  of  being  with  you." 

They  were  walking  hand  in  hand,  looking  at  each  other ; 
Maggie,  indeed,  was  hurrying  along,  for  she  felt  it  time  to  be 
gone.  But  the  sense  that  their  parting  was  near  made  hoi- 
more  anxious  lest  she  should  have  unintentionally  left  some 
painful  impression  on  Philip's  mind.  It  was  one  of  those  dan- 
gerous moments  when  speech  is  at  once  sincere  and  deceptive ; 
when  feeling,  rising  high  above  its  average  depth,  leaves  flood- 
marks  which  are  never  reached  again. 

They  stopped  to  part  among  the  Scotch  firs. 

"Then  my  life  will  be  filled  with  hope,  Maggie,  and  I 
shall  be  happier  than  other  men,  in  spite  of  all  ?  We  do 
belong  to  each  other  —  for  always  —  whether  we  are  apart  or 
together  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Philip ;  I  should  like  never  to  part ;  I  should  like  to 
make  your  life  very  happy." 

"I  am  waiting  for  something  else.  I  wonder  whether  it 
will  come." 

Maggie  smiled,  with  glistening  tears,  and  then  stooped  her 
tall  head  to  kiss  the  pale  face  that  was  full  of  pleading,  timid 
love,  —  like  a  woman's. 

She  had  a  moment  of  real  happiness  then,  —  a  moment  of 
belief  that,  if  there  were  sacrifice  in  this  love,  it  was  all  the 
richer  and  more  satisfying. 

She  turned  away  and  hurried  home,  feeling  that  in  the  hour 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  311 

since  she  had  trodden  this  road  before,  a  new  era  had  begun 
for  her.  The  tissue  of  vague  dreams  must  now  get  narrower 
and  narrower,  and  all  the  threads  of  thought  and  emotion  be 
gradually  absorbed  in  the  woof  of  her  actual  daily  life, 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    CLOVEN    TREE. 

SECRETS  are  rarely  betrayed  or  discovered  according  to  any 
programme  our  fear  has  sketched  out.  Fear  is  almost  always 
haunted  by  terrible  dramatic  scenes,  which  recur  in  spite  of 
the  best-argued  probabilities  against  them  ;  and  during  a  year 
that  Maggie  had  had  the  burthen  of  concealment  on  her  mind, 
the  possibility  of  discovery  had  continually  presented  itself 
under  the  form  of  a  sudden  meeting  with  her  father  or  Tom 
when  she  was  walking  with  Philip  in  the  Red  Deeps.  She  was 
aware  that  this  was  not  one  of  the  most  likely  events ;  but  it 
was  the  scene  that  most  completely  symbolised  her  inward 
dread.  Those  slight  indirect  suggestions  which  are  dependent 
on  apparently  trivial  coincidences  and  incalculable  states  of 
mind,  are  the  favourite  machinery  of  Fact,  but  are  not  the 
stuff  in  which  Imagination  is  apt  to  work. 

Certainly  one  of  the  persons  about  whom  Maggie's  fears 
were  furthest  from  troubling  themselves  was  her  aunt  Pullet, 
on  whom,  seeing  that  she  did  not  live  in  St.  Ogg's,  and  was 
neither  sharp-eyed  nor  sharp-tempered,  it  would  surely  have 
been  quite  whimsical  of  them  to  fix  rather  than  on  aunt  G-legg. 
And  yet  the  channel  of  fatality  —  the  pathway  of  the  light- 
ning —  was  no  other  than  aunt  Pullet.  She  did  not  live  at  St. 
Ogg's,  but  the  road  from  Garum  Firs  lay  by  the  Red  Deeps, 
at  the  end  opposite  that  by  which  Maggie  entered. 

The  day  after  Maggie's  last  meeting  with  Philip,  being  a 
Sunday  011  which  Mr.  Pullet  was  bound  to  appear  in  funeral 
hat-band  and  scarf  at  St.  Ogg's  church,  Mrs.  Pullet  made  this 
the  occasion  of  dining  with  sister  Glegg,  and  taking  tea  with 
poor  sister  Tulliver.  Sunday  was  the  one  day  in  the  week  on 
which  Tom  was  at  home  in  the  afternoon;  and  to-day  thd 
brighter  spirits  he  had  been  in  of  late  had  flowed  over  ia 
unusually  cheerful  open  chat  with  his  father,  and  in  the  invi- 


312  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

tation,  "  Come,  Magsie,  you  come  too ! "  when  he  strolled  out 
with  his  mother  in  the  garden  to  see  the  advancing  cherry- 
blossoms.  He  had  been  better  pleased  with  Maggie  since  she 
had  been  less  odd  and  ascetic;  he  was  even  getting  rather 
proud  of  her;  several  persons  had  remarked  in  his  hearing 
that  his  sister  was  a  very  fine  girl.  To-day  there  was  a  peculiar 
brightness  in  her  face,  due  in  reality  to  an  undercurrent  of 
excitement,  which  had  as  much  doubt  and  pain  as  pleasure 
in  it ;  but  it  might  pass  for  a  sign  of  happiness. 

"  You  look  very  well,  my  dear,"  said  aunt  Pullet,  shaking 
her  head  sadly,  as  they  sat  round  the  tea-table.  "I  niver 
thought  your  girl  'ud  be  so  good-looking,  Bessy.  But  you 
must  wear  pink,  my  dear ;  that  blue  thing  as  your  aunt  Glegg 
gave  you  turns  you  into  a  crowflower.  Jane  never  was  tasty. 
Why  don't  you  wear  that  gown  o'  mine  ?  " 

"  It  is  so  pretty  and  so  smart,  aunt.  I  think  it 's  too 
showy  for  me,  —  at  least  for  my  other  clothes,  that  I  must 
wear  with  it." 

"To  be  sure,  it  'ud  be  unbecoming  if  it  was  n't  well  known 
you  've  got  them  belonging  to  you  as  can  afford  to  give  you 
such  things  when  they  've  done  with  'em  themselves.  It 
stands  to  reason  I  must  give  my  own  niece  clothes  now  and 
then,  —  such  things  as  I  buy  every  year,  and  never  wear  any- 
thing out.  And  as  for  Lucy,  there 's  no  giving  to  her,  for 
she  's  got  everything  o'  the  choicest ;  sister  Deane  may  well 
hold  her  head  up,  —  though  she  looks  dreadful  yallow,  poor 
thing,  —  I  doubt  this  liver  complaint  'ull  carry  her  off. 
That's  what  this  new  vicar,  this  Dr.  Kenn,  said  in  the 
funeral  sermon  to-day." 

"  Ah,  he  's  a  wonderful  preacher,  by  all  account,  —  is  n't 
he,  Sophy  ? "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver. 

•'Why,  Lucy  had  got  a  collar  on  this  blessed  day,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Pullet,  with  her  eyes  fixed  in  a  ruminating  man- 
ner, "  as  I  don't  say  I  have  n't  got  as  good,  but  I  must  look 
out  my  best  to  match  it. " 

"  Miss  Lucy 's  called  the  bell  o'  St.  Ogg's,  they  say ;  that 's 
a  cur'ous  word,"  observed  Mr.  Pullet,  on  whom  the  mysteries 
of  etymology  sometimes  fell  with  an  oppressive  weight. 

'•'  Pooh ! "  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  jealous  for  Maggie,  "  she  's  a 
small  thing,  not  much  of  a  figure.  But  fine  feathers  make 
fine  birds.  I  see  nothing  to  admire  so  much  in  those  dimin- 
utive women  ;  they  look  silly  by  the  side  o'  the  men,  —  out  o' 
proportion.  When  I  chose  my  wife,  I  chose  her  the  right 
size,  —  neither  too  little  nor  too  big." 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  313 

The  poor  wife,  with  her  withered  beauty,  smiled  complacently. 

"  But  the  men  are  n't  all  big,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  not  with- 
out some  self-reference ;  "a  young  fellow  may  be  good-looking 
and  yet  not  be  a  six-foot,  like  Master  Tom  here." 

"  Ah,  it 's  poor  talking  about  littleness  and  bigness,  —  any- 
body may  think  it 's  a  mercy  they  're  straight,"  said  aunt  Pul- 
let. "  There 's  that  mismade  son  o'  Lawyer  Wakern's,  I  saw 
him  at  church  to-day.  Dear,  dear  !  to  think  o'  the  property 
he 's  like  to  have ;  and  they  say  he 's  very  queer  and  lonely, 
does  n't  like  much  company.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  he  goes 
out  of  his  mind ;  for  we  never  come  along  the  road  but  he 's 
a-scrambling  out  o'  the  trees  and  brambles  at  the  Ked  Deeps." 

This  wide  statement,  by  which  Mrs.  Pullet  represented  the 
fact  that  she  had  twice  seen  Philip  at  the  spot  indicated,  pro- 
duced an  effect  on  Maggie  which  was  all  the  stronger  because 
Tom  sate  opposite  her,  and  she  was  intensely  anxious  to  look 
indifferent.  At  Philip's  name  she  had  blushed,  and  the  blush 
deepened  every  instant  from  consciousness,  until  the  mention 
of  the  Eed  Deeps  made  her  •  feel  as  if  the  whole  secret  were 
betrayed,  and  she  dared  not  even  hold  her  tea-spoon  lest  she 
should  show  how  she  trembled.  She  sat  with  her  hands 
clasped  under  the  table,  not  daring  to  look  round.  Happily, 
her  father  was  seated  on  the  same  side  with  herself,  beyond 
her  uncle  Pullet,  and  could  not  see  her  face  without  stooping 
forward.  Her  mother's  voice  brought  the  first  relief,  turn- 
ing the  conversation ;  for  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  always  alarmed 
when  the  name  of  Wakem  was  mentioned  in  her  husband's 
presence.  Gradually  Maggie  recovered  composure  enough  to 
look  up ;  her  eyes  met  Tom's,  but  he  turned  away  his  head 
immediately ;  and  she  went  to  bed  that  night  wondering  if  he 
had  gathered  any  suspicion  from  her  confusion.  Perhaps  not ; 
perhaps  he  would  think  it  was  only  her  alarm  at  her  aunt's 
mention  of  Wakem  before  her  father ;  that  was  the  interpre- 
tation her  mother  had  put  on  it.  To  her  father,.  Wakem  was 
like  a  disfiguring  disease,  of  which  he  was  obliged  to  endure 
the  consciousness,  but  was  exasperated  to  have  the  existence 
recognised  by  others ;  and  no  amount  of  sensitiveness  in  her 
about  her  father  could  be  surprising,  Maggie  thought. 

But  Tom  was  too  keen-sighted  to  rest  satisfied  with  such  an 
interpretation ;  he  had  seen  clearly  enough  that  there  was  some- 
thing distinct  from  anxiety  about  her  father  in  Maggie's  exces- 
sive confusion.  In  trying  to  recall  all  the  details  that  could 
give  shape  to  his  suspicions,  he  remembered  only  lately  hear* 
ing  his  mother  scold  Maggie  for  walking  in  the  Eed  Deep* 


314  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

when  the  ground  was  wet,  and  bringing  home  shoes  clogged 
with  red  soil;  blill  Tom,  retaining  all  his  old  repulsion  for 
Philip's  deformity,  shrank  from  attributing  to  his  sister  the 
probability  of  feeling  more  than  a  friendly  interest  in  such  an 
unfortunate  exception  to  the  common  run  of  men.  Tom's  was 
a  nature  which  had  a  sort  of  superstitious  repugnance  to 
everything  exceptional.  A  love  for  a  deformed  man  would  be 
odious  in  any  woman,  in  a  sister  intolerable.  But  if  she  had 
been  carrying  on  any  kind  of  intercourse  whatever  with  Philip, 
a  stop  must  be  put  to  it  at  once ;  she  was  disobeying  her  fa- 
ther's strongest  feelings  and  her  brother's  express  commands, 
besides  compromising  herself  by  secret  meetings.  He  left  home 
the  next  morning  in  that  watchful  state  of  mind  which  turns 
the  most  ordinary  course  of  things  into  pregnant  coincidences. 

That  afternoon,  about  half-past  three  o'clock,  Tom  was 
standing  on  the  wharf,  talking  with  Bob  Jakin  about  the  prob- 
ability of  the  good  ship  Adelaide  coming  in,  in  a  day  or  two, 
with  results  highly  important  to  both  of  them. 

"  Eh,"  said  Bob,  parenthetically,  as  he  looked  over  the  fields 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  "  there  goes  that  crooked  young 
Wakem.  I  know  him  or  his  shadder  as  far  off  as  I  can  see 
'em  ;  I  'm  allays  lighting  on  him  o'  that  side  the  river." 

A  sudden  thought  seemed  to  have  darted  through  Tom's 
mind.  "  I  must  go,  Bob,"  he  said ;  "  I  've  something  to  attend 
to,"  hurrying  off  to  the  warehouse,  where  he  left  notice  for 
some  one  to  take  his  place;  he  was  called  away  home  on 
peremptory  business. 

The  swiftest  pace  and  the  shortest  road  took  him  to  the 
gate,  and  he  was  pausing  to  open  it  deliberately,  that  he 
might  walk  into  the  house  with  an  appearance  of  perfect 
composure,  when  Maggie  came  out  at  the  front  door  in  bon- 
net and  shawl.  His  conjecture  was  fulfilled,  and  he  waited  for 
her  at  the  gate.  She  started  violently  when  she  saw  him. 

"  Tom,  how  is  it  you  are  come  home  ?  Is  there  anything 
the  matter  ?  "  Maggie  spoke  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice. 

"  I  'm  come  to  walk  with  you  to  the  Red  Deeps  and  meet 
Philip  Wakem,"  said  Tom,  the  central  fold  in  his  brow,  which 
had  become  habitual  with  him,  deepening  as  he  spoke. 

Maggie  stood  helpless,  pale  and  cold.  By  some  means, 
then,  Tom  knew  everything.  At  last  she  said,  "  I  'm  not 
going,"  and  turned  round. 

"  Yes,  you  are ;  but  I  want  to  speak  to  you  first.  Where  18 
my  father?" 

"  Out  on  horseback." 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  315 

*  And  my  mother  ?  " 

"  In  the  yard,  I  think,  with  the  poultry." 

"  I  can  go  in,  then,  without  her  seeing  me  ?  n 

They  walked  in  together,  and  Tom,  entering  the  parlour, 
said  to  Maggie,  "  Come  in  here." 

She  obeyed,  and  he  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"Now,  Maggie,  tell  me  this  instant  everything  that  has 
passed  between  you  and  Philip  Wakem." 

"Does  my  father  know  anything?"  said  Maggie,  still 
trembling. 

"  No,"  said  Tom,  indignantly.  "  But  he  shall  know,  if  you 
attempt  to  use  deceit  towards  me  any  further." 

"I  don't  wish  to  use  deceit,"  said  Maggie,  flushing  into 
resentment  at  hearing  this  word  applied  to  her  conduct. 

"  Tell  me  the  whole  truth,  then." 

"Perhaps  you  know  it." 

"  Never  mind  whether  I  know  it  or  not.  Tell  me  exactly 
what  has  happened,  or  my  father  shall  know  everything." 

"  I  tell  it  for  my  father's  sake,  then." 

"  Yes,  it  becomes  you  to  profess  affection  for  your  father, 
when  you  have  despised  his  strongest  feelings." 

"  You  never  do  wrong,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  tauntingly. 

"  Not  if  I  know  it,"  answered  Tom,  with  proud  sincerity. 
"  But  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you  beyond  this :  tell  me  what 
has  passed  between  you  and  Philip  Wakem.  When  did  you 
first  meet  him  in  the  Red  Deeps  ?  " 

"A  year  ago,"  said  Maggie,  quietly.  Tom's  severity  gave 
her  a  certain  fund  of  defiance,  and  kept  her  sense  of  error  in 
abeyance.  "  You  need  ask  me  no  more  questions.  We  have 
been  friendly  a  year.  We  have  met  and  walked  together 
often.  He  has  lent  me  books." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Tom,  looking  straight  at  her  with  his 
frown. 

Maggie  paused  a  moment ;  then,  determined  to  make  an  end 
of  Tom's  right  to  accuse  her  of  deceit,  she  said  haughtily,  — 

"  No,  not  quite  all.  On  Saturday  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
me.  I  did  n't  think  of  it  before  then ;  I  had  only  thought  of 
him  as  an  old  friend." 

"  And  you  encouraged  him  ?  "  said  Tom,  with  an  expression 
of  disgust. 

"  I  told  him  that  I  loved  him  too." 

Tom  was  silent  a  few  moments,  looking  on  the  ground  and 
frowning,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  At  last  he  looked  up 
and  said  coldly,  — 


316  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Now,  then,  Maggie,  there  are  but  two  courses  for  you  to 
take,  —  either  you  vow  solemnly  to  me,  with  your  hand  on  my 
father's  Bible,  that  you  will  never  have  another  meeting  or 
speak  another  word  in  private  with  Philip  Wakeni,  or  you 
refuse,  and  I  tell  my  father  everything ;  and  this  month,  when 
by  my  exertions  he  might  be  made  happy  once  more,  you  will 
c  him  the  blow  of  knowing  that  you  are  a  disobedient, 
itful  daughter,  who  throws  away  her  own  respectability  by 
clandestine  meetings  with  the  son  of  a  man  that  has  helped  to 
ruin  her  father.  Choose  ! "  Tom  ended  with  cold  decision, 
going  up  to  the  large  Bible,  drawing  it  forward,  and  opening 
it  at  the  fly-leaf,  where  the  writing  was. 

It  was  a  crushing  alternative  to  Maggie. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  urged  out  of  pride  into  pleading,  "  don't 
ask  me  that.  I  will  promise  you  to  give  up  all  intercourse 
with  Philip,  if  you  will  let  me  see  him  once,  or  even  only 
write  to  him  and  explain  everything,  —  to  give  it  up  as  long  as 
it  would  ever  cause  any  pain  to  my  father.  I  feel  something 
for  Philip  too.  He  is  not  happy." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  hear  anything  of  your  feelings ;  I  have 
said  exactly  what  I  mean.  Choose,  and  quickly,  lest  my 
mother  should  come  in." 

"  If  I  give  you  my  word,  that  will  be  as  strong  a  bond  to  me 
as  if  I  laid  my  hand  on  the  Bible.  I  don't  require  that  to 
bind  me." 

"  Do  what  /  require,"  said  Tom.  "  I  can't  trust  you,  Maggie. 
There  is  no  consistency  in  you.  Put  your  hand  on  this  Bible, 
and  say,  'I  renounce  all  private  speech  and  intercourse  with 
Philip  Wakem  from  this  time  forth.'  Else  you  will  bring 
shame  on  us  all,  and  grief  on  my  father ;  and  what  is  the  use 
of  my  exerting  myself  and  giving  up  everything  else  for  the 
sake  of  paying  my  father's  debts,  if  you  are  to  bring  madness 
and  vexation  on  him,  just  when  he  might  be  easy  and  hold  up 
his  head  once  more  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Tom,  will  the  debts  be  paid  soon  ? "  said  Maggie, 
clasping  her  hands,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  joy  across  her 
wretchedness. 

"  If  things  turn  out  as  I  expect,"  said  Tom.  "  But,"  he 
added,  his  voice  trembling  with  indignation,  "while  I  have 
been  contriving  and  working  that  my  father  may  have  some 
peace  of  mind  before  he  dies,  —  working  for  the  respectability 
of  our  family,  —  you  have  done  all  you  can  to  destroy  both." 

Maggie  felt  a  deep  movement  of  compunction ;  for  the 
moment,  her  mind  ceased  to  contend  against  what  she  felt  to 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  817 

be  cruel  and  unreasonable,  and  in  her  self-blame  she  justified 
her  brother. 

"  Torn,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  it  was  wrong  of  me  ;  but 
I  was  so  lonely,  and  I  was  sorry  for  Philip.  And  I  think 
enmity  and  hatred  are  wicked." 

"  Nonsense  ! "  said  Tom.  "  Your  duty  was  clear  enough. 
Say  no  more;  but  promise,  in  the  words  I  told  you." 

"  I  rrnist  speak  to  Philip  once  more." 

"  You  will  go  with  me  now  and  speak  to  him." 

"  I  give  you  my  word  not  to  meet  him  or  write  to  him  again 
without  your  knowledge.  That  is  the  only  thing  I  will  say. 
I  will  put  my  hand  on  the  Bible  if  you  like." 

"  Say  it,  then." 

Maggie  laid  her  hand  on  the  page  of  manuscript  and  repeated 
the  promise.  Tom  closed  the  book,  and  said,  "Now  let  us 
go." 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  as  they  walked  along.  Maggie  was 
suffering  in  anticipation  of  what  Philip  was  about  to  suffer, 
and  dreading  the  galling  words  that  would  fall  on  him  from 
Tom's  lips ;  but  she  felt  it  was  in  vain  to  attempt  any- 
thing but  submission.  Tom  had  his  terrible  clutch  on  her 
conscience  and  her  deepest  dread ;  she  writhed  under  the 
demonstrable  truth  of  the  character  he  had  given  to  her 
conduct,  and  yet  her  whole  soul  rebelled  against  it  as  unfair 
from  its  incompleteness.  He,  meanwhile,  felt  the  impetus 
of  his  indignation  diverted  towards  Philip.  He  did  not 
know  how  much  of  an  old  boyish  repulsion  and  of  mere  per- 
sonal pride  and  animosity  was  concerned  in  the  bitter  severity 
of  the  words  by  which  he  meant  to  do  the  duty  of  a  son  and 
a  brother.  Tom  was  not  given  to  inquire  subtly  into  his  own 
motives  any  more  than  into  other  matters  of  an  intangible 
kind;  he  was  quite  sure  that  his  own  motives  as  well  as 
actions  were  good,  else  he  would  have  had  nothing  to  do 
with  them. 

Maggie's  only  hope  was  that  something  might,  for  the  first 
time,  have  prevented  Philip  from  coming.  Then  there  would 
be  delay,  —  then  she  might  get  Tom's  permission  to  write  to 
him.  Her  heart  beat  with  double  violence  when  they  got 
under  the  Scotch  firs.  It  was  the  last  moment  of  suspense, 
she  thought ;  Philip  always  met  her  soon  after  she  got  beyond 
them.  But  they  passed  across  the  more  open  green  space,  and 
entered  the  narrow  bushy  path  by  the  mound.  Another  turn- 
ing, and  they  came  so  close  upon  him  that  both  Tom  and 
Philip  stopped  suddenly  within  a  yard  of  each  other.  There 


318  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

was  a  moment's  silence,  in  which  Philip  darted  a  look  of  in 
quiry  at  Maggie's  face.  He  saw  an  answer  there,  in  the  pule. 
parted  lips,  and  the  terrified  tension  of  the  large  eyes.  Jlcr 
imagination,  always  rushing  extravagantly  beyond  an  imme- 
diate impression,  saw  her  tall,  strong  brother  grasping  the 
feeble  Philip  bodily,  crushing  him  and  trampling  on  him. 

"  Do  you  call  this  acting  the  part  of  a  man  and  a  gentle- 
man, sir  ? "  Tom  said,  in  a  voice  of  harsh  scorn,  as  soon  as 
Philip's  eyes  were  turned  on  him  again. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  answered  Philip,  haughtily. 

"  Mean  ?  Stand  farther  from  me,  lest  I  should  lay  hands 
on  you,  and  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  mean.  I  mean,  taking 
advantage  of  a  young  girl's  foolishness  and  ignorance  to  get 
her  to  have  secret  meetings  with  you.  I  mean,  daring  to  trifle 
with  the  respectability  of  a  family  that  has  a  good  and  honest 
name  to  support." 

"I  deny  that,"  interrupted  Philip,  impetuously.  "I  could 
never  trifle  with  anything  that  affected  your  sister's  hap- 
piness. She  is  dearer  to  me  than  she  is  to  you  ;  I  honour 
her  more  than  you  can  ever  honour  her ;  I  would  give  up 
my  life  to  her." 

"  Don't  talk  high-flown  nonsense  to  me,  sir !  Do  you  mean 
to  pretend  that  you  did  n't  know  it  would  be  injurious  to  her 
to  meet  you  here  week  after  week  ?  Do  you  pretend  you 
had  any  right  to  make  professions  of  love  to  her,  even  if 
you  had  been  a  fit  husband  for  her,  when  neither  her  father 
nor  your  father  would  ever  consent  to  a  marriage  between 
you  ?  And  you,  —  you  to  try  and  worm  yourself  into  the 
affections  of  a  handsome  girl  who  is  not  eighteen,  and  has 
been  shut  out  from  the  world  by  her  father's  misfortunes  ! 
That 's  your  crooked  notion  of  honour,  is  it  ?  I  call  it  base 
treachery ;  I  call  it  taking  advantage  of  circumstances  to  win 
what 's  too  good  for  you,  —  what  you  'd  never  get  by  fair 
means." 

" It  is  manly  of  you  to  talk  in  this  way  to  me"  said  Philip, 
bitterly,  his  whole  frame  shaken  by  violent  emotions.  "  Giants 
have  an  immemorial  right  to  stupidity  and  insolent  abuse.  You 
are  incapable  even  of  understanding  what  I  feel  for  your  sister. 
I  feel  so  much  for  her  that  I  could  even  desire  to  be  at  friend- 
ship with  you." 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  understand  your  feelings,"  said 
Tom,  with  scorching  contempt.  "What  I  wish  is  that  you 
should  understand  me,  —  that  I  shall  take  care  of  my  sister, 
and  that  if  you  dare  to  make  the  least  attempt  to  come  near 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  319 

her,  or  to  write  to  her,  or  to  keep  the  slightest  hold  on  her 
mind,  your  puny,  miserable  body,  that  ought  to  have  put  some 
modesty  into  your  mind,  shall  not  protect  you.  I  '11  thrash 
you ;  I  '11  hold  you  up  to  public  scorn.  Who  would  n't  laugh 
at  the  idea  of  your  turning  lover  to  a  fine  girl  ?  " 

"  Tom,  I  will  not  bear  it ;  I  will  listen  no  longer,"  Maggie 
burst  out,  in  a  convulsed  voice. 

"  Stay,  Maggie  ! "  said  Philip,  making  a  strong  effort  to 
speak.  Then  looking  at  Tom,  "You  have  dragged  your 
sister  here,  I  suppose,  that  she  may  stand  by  while  you 
threaten  and  insult  me.  These  naturally  seemed  to  you  the 
right  means  to  influence  me.  But  you  are  mistaken.  Let 
your  sister  speak.  If  she  says  she  is  bound  to  give  me  up, 
I  shall  abide  by  her  wishes  to  the  slightest  word." 

"  It  was  for  my  father's  sake,  Philip,"  said  Maggie,  implor- 
ingly. "Tom  threatens  to  tell  my  father,  and  he  couldn't 
bear  it ;  I  have  promised,  I  have  vowed  solemnly,  that 
we  will  not  have  any  intercourse  without  my  brother's 
knowledge." 

"  It  is  enough,  Maggie.  /  shall  not  change ;  but  I  wish  you 
to  hold  yourself  entirely  free.  But  trust  me ;  remember  that  I 
can  never  seek  for  anything  but  good  to  what  belongs  to  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Tom,  exasperated  by  this  attitude  of  Philip's, 
"  you  can  talk  of  seeking  good  for  her  and  what  belongs 
to  her  now ;  did  you  seek  her  good  before  ?  " 

"  I  did,  —  at  some  risk,  perhaps.  But  I  wished  ner  to  have 
a  friend  for  life,  —  who  would  cherish  her,  who  would  do  her 
more  justice  than  a  coarse  and  narrow-minded  brother,  that 
she  has  always  lavished  her  affections  on." 

"  Yes,  my  way  of  befriending  her  is  different  from  yours  ; 
and  I  '11  teli  you  what  is  my  way.  I  '11  save  her  from  dis- 
obeying and  disgracing  her  father ;  I  '11  save  her  from  throw- 
ing herself  away  on  you,  —  from  making  herself  a  laughing- 
stock, —  from  being  flouted  by  a  man  like  your  father,  because 
she 's  not  good  enough  for  his  son.  You  know  well  enough 
what  sort  of  justice  and  cherishing  you  were  preparing  for 
her.  I  'm  not  to  be  imposed  upon  by  fine  words ;  I  can  see 
what  actions  mean.  Come  away,  Maggie." 

He  seized  Maggie's  right  wrist  as  he  spoke,  and  she  put  out 
her  left  hand.  Philip  clasped  it  an  instant,  with  one  eager 
look,  and  then  hurried  away. 

Tom  and  Maggie  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  yards.  He 
was  still  holding  her  wrist  tightly,  as  if  he  were  compelling  a 
culprit  from  the  scene  of  action.  At  last  Maggie,  with  a  vio- 


320  THE  MILL    ON    THE  FLOSS. 

lent  snatch,  drew  her  hand  away,  and  her  pent-up,  long-gath- 
ered irritation  burst  into  utterance. 

"  Don't  suppose  that  I  think  you  are  right,  Tom,  or  that  I  bow 
to  your  will.  I  despise  the  feelings  you  have  shown  in  speaking 
to  Philip ;  I  detest  your  insulting,  unmanly  allusions  to  his  defor- 
mity. You  have  been  reproaching  other  people  all  your  life ;  you 
have  been  always  sure  you  yourself  are  right.  It  is  because  you 
have  not  a  mind  large  enough  to  see  that  there  is  anything  bet- 
ter than  your  own  conduct  and  your  own  petty  aims." 

"Certainly,"  said  Tom,  coolly.  "I  don't  see  that  your 
conduct  is  better,  or  your  aims  either.  If  your  conduct,  and 
Philip  Wakem's  conduct,  has  been  right,  why  are  you  ashamed 
of  its  being  known  ?  Answer  me  that.  I  know  what  I  have 
aimed  at  in  my  conduct,  and  I  Ve  succeeded ;  pray,  what  good 
has  your  conduct  brought  to  you  or  any  one  else  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  defend  myself,"  said  Maggie,  still  with 
vehemence  :  "  I  know  I  've  been  wrong,  —  often,  continually. 
But  yet,  sometimes  when  I  have  done  wrong,  it  has  been 
because  I  have  feelings  that  you  would  be  the  better  for, 
if  you  had  them.  If  you  were  in  fault  ever,  if  you  had 
done  anything  very  wrong,  I  should  be  sorry  for  the  pain 
it  brought  you;  I  should  not  want  punishment  to  be  heaped 
on  you.  But  you  have  always  enjoyed  punishing  me ;  you 
have  always  been  hard  and  cruel  to  me;  even  when  I  was 
a  little  girl,  and  always  loved  you  better  than  any  one  else 
in  the  world,  you  would  let  me  go  crying  to  bed  without 
forgiving  me.  You  have  no  pity;  you  have  no  sense  of 
your  own  imperfection  and  your  own  sins.  It  is  a  sin  to 
be  hard;  it  is  not  fitting  for  a  mortal,  for  a  Christian. 
You  are  nothing  but  a  Pharisee.  You  thank  God  for  noth- 
ing but  your  own  virtues;  you  think  they  are  great 
enough  to  win  you  everything  else.  You  have  not  even 
a  vision  of  feelings  by  the  side  of  which  your  shining 
virtues  are  mere  darkness ! " 

"Well,"  said  Tom,  with  cold  scorn,  "if  your  feelings  are 
so  much  better  than  mine,  let  me  see  you  show  them  in 
some  other  way  than  by  conduct  that 's  likely  to  disgrace 
us  all,  —  than  by  ridiculous  flights  first  into  one  extreme 
and  then  into  another.  Pray,  how  have  you  shown  your 
love,  that  you  talk  of,  either  to  me  or  my  father  ?  By 
disobeying  and  deceiving  us.  I  have  a  different  way  of 
showing  my  affection." 

"Because  you  are  a  man,  Tom,  and  have  power,  and  can 
do  something  in  the  world." 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  321 

"  Then,  if  you  can  do  nothing,  submit  to  those  that  can." 

"So  I  will  submit  to  what  I  acknowledge  and  feel  to  be 
right.  I  will  submit  even  to  what  is  unreasonable  from 
my  father,  but  I  will  not  submit  to  it  from  you.  You 
boast  of  your  virtues  as  if  they  purchased  you  a  right  to 
be  cruel  and  unmanly,  as  you  've  been  to-day.  Don't  sup- 
pose I  would  give  up  Philip  Wakem  in  obedience  to  you. 
The  deformity  you  insult  would  make  me  cling  to  him  and 
care  for  him  the  more." 

"  Very  well ;  that  is  your  view  of  things,"  said  Tom,  more 
coldly  than  ever ;  "  you  need  say  no  more  to  show  me  what  a 
wide  distance  there  is  between  us.  Let  us  remember  that  in 
future,  and  be  silent." 

Tom  went  back  to  St.  Ogg's,  to  fulfil  an  appointment  with 
his  uncle  Deane,  and  receive  directions  about  a  journey  on 
which  he  was  to  set  out  the  next  morning. 

Maggie  went  up  to  her  own  room  to  pour  out  all  that  in- 
dignant remonstrance,  against  which  Tom's  mind  was  close 
barred,  in  bitter  tears.  Then,  when  the  first  burst  of  un- 
satisfied anger  was  gone  by,  came  the  recollection  of  that 
quiet  time  before  the  pleasure  which  had  ended  in  to-day's 
misery  had  perturbed  the  clearness  and  simplicity  of  her  life. 
She  used  to  think  in  that  time  that  she  had  made  great  con- 
quests, and  won  a  lasting  stand  on  serene  heights  above 
worldly  temptations  and  conflict.  And  here  she  was  down 
again  in  the  thick  of  a  hot  strife  with  her  own  and  others' 
passions.  Life  was  not  so  short,  then,  and  perfect  rest  was 
not  so  near  as  she  had  dreamed  when  she  was  two  years 
younger.  There  was  more  struggle  for  her,  perhaps  more 
falling.  If  she  had  felt  that  she  was  entirely  wrong,  and 
that  Tom  had  been  entirely  right,  she  could  sooner  have 
recovered  more  inward  harmony ;  but  now  her  penitence 
and  submission  were  constantly  obstructed  by  resentment 
that  would  present  itself  to  her  no  otherwise  than  as  a  just 
indignation.  Her  heart  bled  for  Philip;  she  went  on  re- 
calling the  insults  that  had  been  flung  at  him  with  so 
vivid  a  conception  of  what  he  had  felt  under  them,  that 
it  was  almost  like  a  sharp  bodily  pain  to  her,  making  her 
beat  the  floor  with  her  foot,  and  tighten  her  fingers  on  her 
palm. 

And  yet,  how  was  it  that  she  was  now  and  then  conscious 
of  a  certain  dim  background  of  relief  in  the  forced  separation 
from  Philip  ?  Surely  it  was  only  because  the  sense  of  a  de- 
liverance from  concealment  wa,s  welcome  at  any  cost. 

SU 


322  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE  HARD-WON  TRIUMPH. 

THREE  weeks  later,  when  Dorlcote  Mill  was  at  its  prettiest 
moment  in  all  the  year,  —  the  great  chestnuts  in  blossom,  and 
the  grass  all  deep  and  daisied,  —  Tom  Tulliver  came  home  to 
it  earlier  than  usual  in  the  evening,  and  as  he  passed  over  the 
bridge,  he  looked  with  the  old  deep-rooted  affection  at  the  re- 
spectable red  brick  house,  which  always  seemed  cheerful  and 
inviting  outside,  let  the  rooms  be  as  bare  and  the  hearts  as 
sad  as  they  might  inside.  There  is  a  very  pleasant  light  in 
Tom's  blue-grey  eyes  as  he  glances  at  the  house-windows ; 
that  fold  in  his  brow  never  disappears,  but  it  is  not  unbe- 
coming ;  it  seems  to  imply  a  strength  of  will  that  may 
possibly  be  without  harshness,  when  the  eyes  and  mouth 
have  their  gentlest  expression.  His  firm  step  becomes 
quicker,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  rebel  against  the 
compression  which  is  meant  to  forbid  a  smile. 

The  eyes  in  the  parlour  were  not  turned  towards  the 
bridge  just  then,  and  the  group  there  was  sitting  in  un- 
expectant  silence,  —  Mr.  Tulliver  in  his  arm-chair,  tired 
with  a  long  ride,  and  ruminating  with  a  worn  look,  fixed 
chiefly  on  Maggie,  who  was  bending  over  her  sewing 
while  her  mother  was  making  the  tea. 

They  all  looked  up  with  surprise  when  they  heard  the 
well-known  foot. 

"  Why,  what 's  up  now,  Tom  ?  "  said  his  father.  "  You  're 
a  bit  earlier  than  usual." 

"  Oh,  there  was  nothing  more  for  me  to  do,  so  I  came  away. 
Well,  mother!" 

Tom  went  up  to  his  mother  and  kissed  her,  a  sign  of 
unusual  good-humour  with  him.  Hardly  a  word  or  look 
had  passed  between  him  and  Maggie  in  all  the  three 
weeks ;  but  his  usual  incommunicativeness  at  home  pre- 
vented this  from  being  noticeable  to  their  parents. 

"Father,"  said  Tom,  when  they  had  finished  tea,  "do  you 
know  exactly  how  much  money  there  is  in  the  tin  box  ?" 

"Only  a  hundred  and  ninety-three  pound,"  said  Mr.  Tul- 
liver. "  You  've  brought  less  o'  late ;  but  young  fellows  like 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  323 

to  have  their  own  way  with  their  money.  Though  I  did  n't 
do  as  I  liked  before  /  was  of  age."  He  spoke  with  rather 
timid  discontent. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  that 's  the  sum,  father  ? "  said  Tom. 
"  I  wish  you  would  take  the  trouble  to  fetch  the  tin  box  down. 
I  think  you  have  perhaps  made  a  mistake." 

"  How  should  I  make  a  mistake  ?  "  said  his  father,  sharply. 
"  I  've  counted  it  often  enough ;  but  I  can  fetch  it,  if  you 
won't  believe  me." 

It  was  always  an  incident  Mr.  Tulliver  liked,  in  his  gloomy 
life,  to  fetch  the  tin  box  and  count  the  money. 

"  Don't  go  out  of  the  room,  mother,"  said  Tom,  as  he  saw 
her  moving  when  his  father  was  gone  up-stairs. 

"  And  is  n't  Maggie  to  go  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver ;  "  because 
somebody  must  take  away  the  things." 

"  Just  as  she  likes,"  said  Tom,  indifferently. 

That  was  a  cutting  word  to  Maggie.  Her  heart  had  leaped 
with  the  sudden  conviction  that  Tom  was  going  to  tell  their 
father  the  debts  could  be  paid ;  and  Tom  would  have  let  her 
be  absent  when  that  news  was  told !  But  she  carried  away 
the  tray  and  came  back  immediately.  The  feeling  of  injury 
on  her  own  behalf  could  not  predominate  at  that  moment. 

Tom  drew  to  the  corner  of  the  table  near  his  father  when 
the  tin  box  was  set  down  and  opened,  and  the  red  evening 
light  falling  on  them  made  conspicuous  the  worn,  sour  gloom 
of  the  dark-eyed  father  and  the  suppressed  joy  in  the  face  of 
the  fair-complexioned  son.  The  mother  and  Maggie  sat  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  the  one  in  blank  patience,  the  other  in 
palpitating  expectation. 

Mr.  Tulliver  counted  out  the  money,  setting  it  in  order  on 
the  table,  and  then  said,  glancing  sharply  at  Tom,  — 

"  There  now  !  you  see  I  was  right  enough." 

He  paused,  looking  at  the  money  with  bitter  despondency. 

"  There  's  more  nor  three  hundred  wanting ;  it  '11  be  a  fine 
while  before  7  can  save  that.  Losing  that  forty-two  pound 
wi'  the  corn  was  a  sore  job.  This  world  's  been  too  many  for 
me.  It's  took  four  year  to  lay  this  by;  it's  much  if  I'm 
above  ground  for  another  four  year.  I  must  trusten  to  you  to 
pay  'em,"  he  went  on,  with  a  trembling  voice,  "  if  you  keep  i' 
the  same  mind  now  you  're  coming  o'  age.  But  you  're  like 
enough  to  bury  me  first." 

He  looked  up  in  Tom's  face  with  a  querulous  desire  for 
some  assurance. 

"  No,  father,"  said  Tom,  speaking  with  energetic  decision, 


324  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

though  there  was  tremor  discernible  in  his  voice  too,  "  you  will 
live  to  see  the  debts  all  paid.  You  shall  pay  them  with  your 
own  hand." 

His  tone  implied  something  more  than  mere  hopefulness  or 
resolution.  A  :-, light  electric  shock  seemed  to  pass  through 
Mr.  Tulliver,  and  lie  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  Tom  with  a  look  of 
eager  inquiry.,  while  Maggie,  unable  to  restrain  herself,  rushed 
to  her  father's  side  and  knelt  down  by  him.  Tom  was  silent 
a  little  while  before  he  went  on. 

"A  good  while  ago,  my  uncle  Glegg  lent  me  a  little  money 
to  trade  with,  and  that  has  answered.  I  have  three  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds  in  the  bank." 

His  mother's  arms  were  round  his  neck  as  soon  as  the  last 
words  were  uttered,  and  she  said,  half  crying,  — 

"  Oh,  my  boy,  I  knew  you  'd  make  iverything  right  again, 
when  you  got  a  man." 

But  his  father  was  silent  ;  the  flood  of  emotion  hemmed  in 
all  power  of  speech.  Both  Tom  and  Maggie  were  struck  with 
fear  lest  the  shock  of  joy  might  even  be  fatal.  But  the 
blessed  relief  of  tears  came.  The  broad  chest  heaved,  the 
muscles  of  the  face  gave  way,  and  the  grey-haired  man  burst 
into  loud  sobs.  The  fit  of  weeping  gradually  subsided,  and  he 
sat  quiet,  recovering  the  regularity  of  his  breathing.  At  last 
he  looked  up  at  his  wife  and  said,  in  a  gentle  tone,  — 

"  Bessy,  you  must  come  and  kiss  me  now  —  the  lad  has  made 
you  amends.  You  '11  see  a  bit  o'  comfort  again,  belike." 

When  she  had  kissed  him,  and  he  had  held  her  hand  a 
minute,  his  thoughts  went  back  to  the  money. 

"  I  wish  you  'd  brought  me  the  money  to  look  at,  Tom,"  he 
said,  fingering  the  sovereigns  on  the  table ;  "  I  should  ha'  felt 
surer." 

"  You  shall  see  it  to-morrow,  father,"  said  Tom.  "  My  uncle 
Deane  has  appointed  the  creditors  to  meet  to-morrow  at  the 
Golden  Lion,  and  he  has  ordered  a  dinner  for  them  at  two 
o'clock.  My  uncle  Glegg  and  he  will  both  be  there.  It  was 
advertised  in  the  Messenger'  on  Saturday." 

"Then  Wakem  knows  on't!"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  his  eye 
kindling  with  triumphant  fire.  "Ah  ! "  he  went  on,  with  a 
long-drawn  guttural  enunciation,  taking  out  his  snuff-box,  the 
only  luxury  he  had  left  himself,  and  tapping  it  with  something 
of  his  old  air  of  defiance.  "I'll  get  from  under  his  thumb 
now,  though  I  mitst  leave  the  old  mill.  T  thought  I  could  ha' 
held  out  to  die  here  —  but  I  can't  —  We  've  got  a  glass  o1 
nothing  in  the  house,  have  we,  Bessy  ?  " 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  325 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  drawing  out  her  much-reduced 
bunch  of  keys,  "  there 's  some  brandy  sister  Deane  brought 
me  when  I  was  ill." 

"  Get  it  me,  then  ;  get  it  me.     I  feel  a  bit  weak." 

"  Tom,  my  lad,"  he  said,  in  a  stronger  voice,  when  he  had 
taken  some  brandy -and-water,  "you  shall  make  a  speech  to 
'em.  I  '11  tell  'em  it 's  you  as  got  the  best  part  o'  the  money. 
They'll  see  I'm  honest  at  last,  and  ha'  got  an  honest  son. 
Ah  !  Wakem  'ud  be  fine  and  glad  to  have  a  son  like  mine,  —  a 
fine  straight  fellow,  —  i'stead  o'  that  poor  crooked  creatur ! 
You  '11  prosper  i'  the  world,  my  lad ;  you  '11  maybe  see  the  day 
when  Wakem  and  his  son  'ull  be  a  round  or  two  below  you. 
You  '11  like  enough  be  ta'en  into  partnership,  as  your  uncle 
Deane  was  before  you,  —  you  're  in  the  right  way  for 't ;  and 
then  there  's  nothing  to  hinder  your  getting  rich.  And  if  ever 
you  're  rich  enough  —  mind  this  —  try  and  get  th'  old  mill 
again." 

Mr.  Tulliver  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair;  his  mind, 
which  had  so  long  been  the  home  of  nothing  but  bitter  dis- 
content and  foreboding,  suddenly  filled,  by  the  magic  of  joy,  with 
visions  of  good  fortune.  But  some  subtle  influence  prevented 
him  from  foreseeing  the  good  fortune  as  happening  to  himself. 

"  Shake  hands  wi"  me,  my  lad,"  he  said,  suddenly  putting 
out  his  hand.  "  It 's  a  great  thing  when  a  man  can  be  proud  as 
he  's  got  a  good  son.  I  've  had  that  luck." 

Tom  never  lived  to  taste  another  moment  so  delicious  as 
that ;  and  Maggie  could  n't  help  forgetting  her  own  grievances. 
Tom  was  good ;  and  in  the  sweet  humility  that  springs  in  us 
all  in  moments  of  true  admiration  and  gratitude,  she  felt  that 
the  faults  he  had  to  pardon  in  her  had  never  been  redeemed, 
as  his  faults  were.  She  felt  no  jealousy  this  evening  that, 
for  the  first  time,  she  seemed  to  be  thrown  into  the  back- 
ground in  her  father's  mind. 

There  was  much  more  talk  before  bed-time.  Mr.  Tulliver 
naturally  wanted  to  hear  all  the  particulars  of  Tom's  trading 
adventures,  and  he  listened  with  growing  excitement  and 
delight.  He  was  curious  to  know  what  had  been  said  on  every 
occasion ;  if  possible,  what  had  been  thought ;  and  Bob  Ja- 
kin's  part  in  the  business  threw  him  into  peculiar  outbursts 
of  sympathy  with  the  triumphant  knowingness  of  that  re- 
markable packman.  Bob's  juvenile  history,  so  far  as  it  had 
come  under  Mr.  Tulliver's  knowledge,  was  recalled  with  that 
sense  of  astonishing  promise  it  displayed,  which  is  observable 
in  all  reminiscences  of  the  childhood  of  great  men. 


326  THE   MILL    ON    THE   FLOSS. 

It  was  well  that  there  was  this  interest  of  narrative  to 
under  the  vague  but  tierce  sense  of  triumph  over  Wakem, 
which  would  otherwise  have  been  the  channel  his  joy  would 
have  rushed  into  with  dangerous  force.  Even  as  it  was,  that 
feeling  from  time  to  time  gave  threats  of  its  ultimate  mastery, 
in  sudden  bursts  of  irrelevant  exclamation. 

It  was  long  before  Mr.  Tulliver  got  to  sleep  that  night;  and 
the  sleep,  when  it  came,  was  tilled  with  vivid  dreams.  At 
half-past  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  Mrs.  Tulliver  was 
already  rising,  he  alarmed  her  by  starting  up  with  a  sort  of 
smothered  shout,  and  looking  round  in  a  bewildered  way  at 
the  walls  of  the  bedroom. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Tulliver?"  said  his  wife.  He 
looked  at  her,  still  with  a  puzzled  expression,  and  said  at 
last,  — 

"Ah  !  —  I  was  dreaming  —  did  I  make  a  noise  ? —  I  thought 
I  'd  got  hold  of  him." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A    DAT    OF    BECKONING. 

MR.  TULLIVER  was  an  essentially  sober  man,  —  able  to  take 
his  glass  and  not  averse  to  it,  but  never  exceeding  the  bounds 
of  moderation.  He  had  naturally  an  active  Hotspur  tempera- 
ment, which  did  not  crave  liquid  fire  to  set  it  aglow  ;  his 
impetuosity  was  usually  equal  to  an  exciting  occasion  with- 
out any  such  reinforcements ;  and  his  desire  for  the  brandy- 
and-water  implied  that  the  too  sudden  joy  had  fallen  with  a 
dangerous  shock  on  a  frame  depressed  by  four  years  of  gloom 
and  unaccustomed  hard  fare.  But  that  first  doubtful  tottering 
moment  passed,  he  seemed  to  gather  strength  with  his  gath- 
ering excitement ;  and  the  next  day,  when  he  was  seated  at 
table  with  his  creditors,  his  eye  kindling  and  his  cheek  flushed 
with  the  consciousness  that  he  was  about  to  make  an  honour- 
able figure  once  more,  he  looked  more  like  the  proud,  confi- 
dent, warm-hearted,  and  warm-tempered  Tulliver  of  old  times 
than  might  have  seemed  possible  to  any  one  who  had  met 
him  a  week  before,  riding  along  as  had  been  his  wont  for  the 
last  four  years  since  the  sense  of  failure  and  debt  had  been 
upon  him,  —  with  his  head  hanging  down,  casting  brief,  unwill- 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  327 

ing  looks  on  those  who  forced  themselves  on  his  notice.  He 
made  his  speech,  asserting  his  honest  principles  with  his  old 
confident  eagerness,  alluding  to  the  rascals  and  the  luck  that 
had  been  against  him,  but  that  he  had  triumphed  over,  to 
some  extent,  by  hard  efforts  and  the  aid  of  a  good  son;  and 
winding  up  with  the  story  of  how  Tom  had  got  the  best  part 
of  the  needful  money.  But  the  streak  of  irritation  and 
hostile  triumph  seemed  to  melt  'for  a  little  while  into  purer 
i'atherly  pride  and  pleasure,  when,  Tom's  health  having  been 
proposed,  and  uncle  Deane  having  taken  occasion  to  say  a 
few  words  of  eulogy  on  his  general  character  and  conduct, 
Tom  himself  got  up  and  made  the  single  speech  of  his  life. 
It  could  hardly  have  been  briefer.  He  thanked  the  gentlemen 
for  the  honour  they  had  done  him.  He  was  glad  that  he  had 
been  able  to  help  his  father  in  proving  his  integrity  and 
regaining  his  honest  name ;  and,  for  his  own  part,  he  hoped 
he  should  never  undo  that  work  and  disgrace  that  name. 
But  the  applause  that  followed  was  so  great,  and  Tom  looked 
so  gentlemanly  as  well  as  tall  and  straight,  that  Mr.  Tulliver 
remarked,  in  an  explanatory  manner,  to  his  friends  on  his 
right  and  left,  that  he  had  spent  a  deal  of  money  on  his 
son's  education. 

The  party  broke  up  in  very  sober  fashion  at  five  o'clock. 
Tom  remained  in  St.  Ogg'  s  to  attend  to  some  business,  and 
Mr.  Tulliver  mounted  his  horse  to  go  home,  and  describe  the 
memorable  things  that  had  been  said  and  done,  to  "poor 
Bessy  and  the  little  wench."  The  air  of  excitement  that 
hung  about  him  was  but  faintly  due  to  good  cheer  or  any 
stimulus  but  the  potent  wine  of  triumphant  joy.  He  did  not 
choose  any  back  street  to-day,  but  rode  slowly,  with  uplifted 
head  and  free  glances,  along  the  principal  street  all  the  way 
to  the  bridge.  Why  did  he  not  happen  to  meet  "Wakem  ? 
The  want  of  that  coincidence  vexed  him,  and  set  his  mind  at 
work  in  an  irritating  way.  Perhaps  Wakein  was  gone  out  of 
town  to-day  on  purpose  to  avoid  seeing  or  hearing  anything 
of  an  honourable  action  which  might  well  cause  him  some 
unpleasant  twinges.  If  Wakem  were  to  meet  him  then, 
Mr.  Tulliver  would  look  straight  at  him,  and  the  rascal 
would  perhaps  be  forsaken  a  little  by  his  cool,  domineering 
impudence.  He  would  know  by-and-by  that  an  honest  man 
was  not  going  to  serve  him  any  longer,  and  lend  his  honesty 
to  fill  a  pocket  already  over-full  of  dishonest  gains.  Perhaps 
the  luck  was  beginning  to  turn ;  perhaps  the  Devil  did  n't 
always  hold  the  best  cards  in  this  world. 


328  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Simmering  in  this  way,  Mr.  Tulliver  approached  the  yard- 
gates  of  Dorlcote  Mill,  near  enough  to  see  a  well-known 
figure  coming  out  of  them  on  a  fine  black  horse.  They  met 
about  fifty  yards  from  the  gates,  between  the  great  chestnuts 
and  elms  and  the  high  bank. 

"  Tulliver,"  said  Wakem,  abruptly,  in  a  haughtier  tone  than 
usual,  "  what  a  fool's  trick  you  did,  —  spreading  those  hard 
lumps  on  that  Far  Close  !  I  told  you  how  it  would  be  ;  but 
you  men  never  learn  to  farm  with  any  method." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Tulliver,  suddenly  boiling  up  ;  "  get  somebody 
else  to  farm  for  you,  then,  as  '11  ask  you  to  teach  him." 

"You  have  been  drinking,  I  suppose,"  said  Wakem,  really 
believing  that  this  was  the  meaning  of  Tulliver's  flushed  face 
and  sparkling  eyes. 

"  No,  I  've  not  been  drinking,"  said  Tulliver ;  "  I  want  no 
drinking  to  help  me  make  up  my  mind  as  I  '11  serve  no  longer 
under  a  scoundrel." 

"  Very  well !  you  may  leave  my  premises  to-morrow,  then ; 
hold  your  insolent  tongue  and  let  me  pass."  (Tulliver  was 
backing  his  horse  across  the  road  to  hem  Wakem  in.) 

"  No,  I  sha'n't  let  you  pass,"  said  Tulliver,  getting  fiercer. 
"  I  shall  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you  first.  You  're  too  big 
a  raskill  to  get  hanged  —  you  're  —  " 

" Let  me  pass,  you  ignorant  brute,  or  I'll  ride  over  you." 

Mr.  Tulliver,  spurring  his  horse  and  raising  his  whip,  made 
a  rush  forward ;  and  Wakem's  horse,  rearing  and  staggering 
backward,  threw  his  rider  from  the  saddle  and  sent  him  side- 
ways on  the  ground.  Wakem  had  had  the  presence  of  mind 
to  loose  the  bridle  at  once,  and  as  the  horse  only  staggered 
a  few  paces  and  then  stood  still,  he  might  have  risen  and 
remounted  without  more  inconvenience  than  a  bruise  and  a 
shake.  But  before  he  could  rise,  Tulliver  was  off  his  horse 
too.  The  sight  of  the  long-hated  predominant  man  down, 
and  in  his  power,  threw  him  into  a  frenzy  of  triumphant  ven- 
geance, which  seemed  to  give  him  preternatural  agility  and 
strength.  He  rushed  on  Wakem,  who  was  in  the  act  of  trying 
to  recover  his  feet,  grasped  him  by  the  left  arm  so  as  to  press 
Wakem's  whole  Aveight  on  the  right  arm,  which  rested  on  the 
ground,  and  flogged  him  fiercely  across  the  back  with  his  riding- 
whip.  Wakem  shouted  for  help,  but  no  help  came,  until  a 
woman's  scream  was  heard,  and  the  cry  of  "  Father,  father ! " 

Suddenly,  Wakem  felt,  something  had  arrested  Mr.  Tulliver's 
arm  ;  for  the  flogging  ceased,  and  the  grasp  on  his  own  arm 
was  relaxed. 


WHEAT  AND    TARES.  329 

"  Get  away  with  you  —  go  !  "  said  Tulliver,  angrily.  But 
it  was  not  to  Wakeru  that  he  spoke.  Slowly  the  lawyer  rose, 
and,  as  he  turned  his  head,  saw  that  Tulliver's  arms  were 
being  held  by  a  girl,  rather  by  the  fear  of  hurting  the  girl 
that  clung  to  him  with  all  her  young  might. 

"  Oh,  Luke  —  mother  —  come  and  help  Mr.  Wakem !  "  Maggie 
cried,  as  she  heard  the  longed-for  footsteps. 

"  Help  me  on  to  that  low  horse,"  said  Wakem  to  Luke, 
"  then  I  shall  perhaps  manage  ;  though  —  confound  it  —  I 
think  this  arm  is  sprained." 

With  some  difficulty,  Wakem  was  heaved  on  to  Tulliver's 
horse.  Then  he  turned  towards  the  miller  and  said,  with 
white  rage,  "  You  '11  suffer  for  this,  sir.  Your  daughter  is  a 
witness  that  you've  assaulted  me." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Mr.  Tulliver,  in  a  thick,  fierce  voice ; 
"  go  and  show  your  back,  and  tell  'em  I  thrashed  you.  Tell 
7em  I  've  made  things  a  bit  more  even  i'  the  world." 

"Kide  my  horse  home  with  me,"  said  Wakem  to  Luke. 
"By  the  Tofton  Ferry,  not  through  the  town." 

"Father,  come  in!"  said  Maggie,  imploringly.  Then,  see- 
ing that  Wakem  had  ridden  off,  and  that  no  further  violence 
was  possible,  she  slackened  her  hold  and  burst  into  hysteric 
sobs,  while  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  stood  by  in  silence,  quivering 
with  fear.  But  Maggie  became  conscious  that  as  she  was 
slackening  her  hold,  her  father  was  beginning  to  grasp  her  and 
lean  on  her.  The  surprise  checked  her  sobs. 

"  I  feel  ill  —  f aintish,"  he  said.  "  Help  me  in,  Bessy  —  I  'm 
giddy  —  I  've  a  pain  i'  the  head." 

He  walked  in  slowly,  propped  by  his  wife  and  daughter,  and 
tottered  into  his  arm-chair.  The  almost  purple  flush  had  given 
way  to  paleness,  and  his  hand  was  cold. 

"  Had  n't  we  better  send  for  the  doctor  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Tulliver. 

He  seemed  to  be  too  faint  and  suffering  to  hear  her ;  but 
presently,  when  she  said  to  Maggie,  "  Go  and  see  for  some- 
body to  fetch  the  doctor,"  he  looked  up  at  her  with  full  com- 
prehension, and  said,  "  Doctor  ?  No  —  no  doctor.  It 's  my 
head,  that's  all.  Help  me  to  bed." 

Sad  ending  to  the  day  that  had  risen  on  them  all  like  a 
beginning  of  better  times !  But  mingled  seed  must  bear  a 
mingled  crop. 

In  half  an  hour  after  his  father  had  lain  down  Tom  came 
home.  Bob  Jakin  was  with  him,  come  to  congratulate  "the 
old  master, "  not  without  some  excusable  pride  that  he  had 
had  his  share  in  bringing  about  Mr.  Tom's  good  luck ;  and  Tom 


330  THE   MILL    ON   THE  FLOSS. 

had  thought  his  father  would  like  nothing  better,  as  a  finish 
to  the  day,  than  a  talk  with  Bob.  But  now  Tom  could  only 
spend  the  evening  in  gloomy  expectation  of  the  unpleasant 
consequences  that  must  follow  on  this  mad  outbreak  of  his 
father's  long-smothered  hate.  After  the  painful  news  had 
been  told,  he  sat  in  silence ;  he  had  not  spirit  or  inclination  to 
tell  his  mother  and  sister  anything  about  the  dinner ;  they 
hardly  cared  to  ask  it.  Apparently  the  mingled  thread  in  the 
web  of  their  life  was  so  curiously  twisted  together,  that  there 
could  be  no  joy  without  a  sorrow  coming  close  upon  it.  Tom 
was  dejected  by  the  thought  that  his  exemplary  effort  must 
always  be  baffled  by  the  wrong-doing  of  others ;  Maggie  was 
living  through,  over  and  over  again,  the  agony  of  the  moment 
in  which  she  had  rushed  to  throw  herself  on  her  father's 
arm,  with  a  vague,  shuddering  foreboding  of  wretched  scenes 
to  conie.  Not  one  of  the  three  felt  any  particular  alarm  about 
Mr.  Tulliver's  health ;  the  symptoms  did  not  recall  his  former 
dangerous  attack,  and  it  seemed  only  a  necessary  consequence 
that  his  violent  passion  and  effort  of  strength,  after  many 
hours  of  unusual  excitement,  should  have  made  him  feel  ill. 
Rest  would  probably  cure  him. 

Tom,  tired  out  by  his  active  day,  fell  asleep  soon,  and  slept 
soundly ;  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  only  just  come  to  bed, 
when  he  waked  to  see  his  mother  standing  by  him  in  the  grey 
light  of  early  morning. 

"  My  boy,  you  must  get  up  this  minute ;  I  've  sent  for  the 
doctor,  and  your  father  wants  you  and  Maggie  to  come  to 
him." 

"  Is  he  worse,  mother  ?  " 

"  He 's  been  very  ill  all  night  with  his  head,  but  he  does  n't 
say  it 's  worse ;  he  only  said  sudden,  l  Bessy,  fetch  the  boy 
and  girl.  Tell  'em  to  make  haste.' " 

Maggie  and  Tom  threw  on  their  clothes  hastily  in  the  chill 
grey  light,  and  reached  their  father's  room  almost  at  the  same 
moment.  He  was  watching  for  them  with  an  expression  of 
1:1  in  on  his  brow,  but  with  sharpened,  anxious  consciousness  in 
his  eyes.  Mrs.  Tulliver  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  fright- 
ened and  trembling,  looking  worn  and  aged  from  disturbed 
rest.  Maggie  was  at  the  bedside  first,  but  her  father's  glance 
was  towards  Tom,  who  came  and  stood  next  to  her. 

"  Tom,  my  lad,  it 's  come  upon  me  as  I  sha'n't  get  up 
again.  This  world's  been  too  many  for  me,  my  lad,  but 
you  've  done  what  you  could  to  make  things  a  bit  even.  Shake 
hands  wi'  me  again,  my  lad,  beiure  I  go  away  from  you." 


WHEAT  AND   TARES.  331 

The  father  and  son  clasped  hands  and  looked  at  each  other 
an  instant.  Then  Tom  said,  trying  to  speak  firmly,  — 

"  Have  you  any  wish,  father  —  that  I  can  fulfil,  when  —  " 

"Ay,  my  lad  —  you'll  try  and  get  the  old  mill  back." 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  And  there 's  your  mother  —  you  '11  try  and  make  her 
amends,  all  you  can,  for  my  bad  luck  —  and  there 's  the  little 
wench  —  " 

The  father  turned  his  eyes  on  Maggie  with  a  still  more 
eager  look,  while  she,  with  a  bursting  heart,  sank  on  her 
knees,  to  be  closer  to  the  dear,  time-worn  face  which  had  been 
present  with  her  through  long  years,  as  the  sign  of  her  deepest 
love  and  hardest  trial. 

"You  must  take  care  of  her,  Tom  —  don't  you  fret,  my 
wench  —  there  '11  come  somebody  as  '11  love  you  and  take  your 
part  —  and  you  must  be  good  to  her,  my  lad.  I  was  good  to 
my  sister.  Kiss  me,  Maggie.  —  Come,  Bessy.  —  You  '11  man- 
age to  pay  for  a  brick  grave,  Tom,  so  as  your  mother  and  me 
can  lie  together." 

He  looked  away  from  them  all  when  he  had  said  this,  and 
lay  silent  for  some  minutes,  while  they  stood  watching  him, 
not  daring  to  move.  The  morning  light  was  growing  clearer 
for  them,  and  they  could  see  the  heaviness  gathering  in  his 
face,  and  the  dulness  in  his  eyes.  But  at  last  he  looked 
towards  Tom  and  said,  — 

"  I  had  my  turn  —  I  beat  him.  That  was  nothing  but  fair. 
I  never  wanted  anything  but  what  was  fair." 

"But,  father,  dear  father,"  said  Maggie,  an  unspeakable 
anxiety  predominating  over  her  grief,  "  you  forgive  him  —  you 
forgive  every  one  now  ?  " 

He  did  not  move  his  eyes  to  look  at  her,  but  he  said,  — 

"  No,  my  wench.  I  don't  forgive  him.  What 's  forgiving 
to  do  ?  I  can't  love  a  raskill  — ' 

His  voice  had  become  thicker ;  but  he  wanted  to  say  more, 
and  moved  his  lips  again  and  again,  struggling  in  vain  to 
speak.  At  length  the  words  forced  their  way. 

"  Does  God  forgive  raskills  ?  —  but  if  He  does,  He  won't 
be  hard  wi'  me." 

His  hands  moved  uneasily,  as  if  he  wanted  them  to  remove 
some  obstruction  that  weighed  upon  him.  Two  or  three  times 
there  fell  from  him  some  broken  words,  — 

"  This  world 's  —  too  many  —  honest  man  —  puzzling  —  " 

Soon  they  merged  into  mere  mutterings  ;  the  eyes  had  ceased 
to  discern ;  and  then  came  the  final  silence. 


332  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

But  not  of  death.  For  an  hour  or  more  the  chest  heaved, 
the  loud,  hard  breathing  continued,  getting  gradually  slower, 
as  the  cold  dews  gathered  on  the  brow. 

At  last  there  was  total  stillness,  and  poor  Tulliver's  dimly 
lighted  soul  had  for  ever  ceased  to  be  vexed  with  the  painful 
riddle  of  this  world. 

Help  was  come  now ;  Luke  and  his  wife  were  there,  and  Mr. 
lurnbull  had  arrived,  too  late  for  everything  but  to  say, 
'This  is  death." 

Tom  and  Maggie  went  down-stairs  together  into  the  room 
where  their  father's  place  was  empty.  Their  eyes  turned  to 
the  same  spot,  and  Maggie  spoke,  — 

"  Tom,  forgive  me  —  let  us  always  love  each  other ; "  and 
they  clung  and  wept  together. 


BOOK  VI. 

THE  GREAT  TEMPTATION. 
CHAPTER  I. 

A    DUET    IN    PARADISE. 

THE  well-furnished  drawing-room,  with  the  open  grand 
piano,  and  the  pleasant  outlook  down  a  sloping  garden  to  a 
boat-house  by  the  side  of  the  Floss,  is  Mr.  Deane's.  The  neat 
little  lady  in  mourning,  whose  light-brown  ringlets  are  falling 
over  the  coloured  embroidery  with  which  her  fingers  are  busy, 
is  of  course  Lucy  Deane ;  and  the  fine  young  man  who  is  lean- 
ing down  from  his  chair  to  snap  the  scissors  in  the  extremely 
abbreviated  face  of  the  "  King  Charles  "  lying  on  the  young 
lady's  feet,  is  no  other  than  Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  whose  dia- 
mond ring,  attar  of  roses,  and  air  of  nonchalant  leisure,  at 
twelve  o'clock  in  the  day,  are  the  graceful  and  odoriferous 
result  of  the  largest  oil-mill  and  the  most  extensive  wharf  in 
St.  egg's.  There  is  an  apparent  trivially  in  the  action  with 
the  scissors,  but  your  discernment  perceives  at  once  that 
there  is  a  design  in  it  which  makes  it  eminently  worthy  of 
a  large-headed,  long-limbed  young  man  ;  for  you  see  that  Lucy 
wants  the  scissors,  and  is  compelled,  reluctant  as  she  may  be, 
to  shake  her  ringlets  back,  raise  her  soft  hazel  eyes,  smile 
playfully  down  on  the  face  that  is  so  very  nearly  on  a  level 
with  her  knee,  and  holding  out  her  little  shell-pink  palm,  to 
say,— 

"  My  scissors,  please,  if  you  can  renounce  the  great  pleasun 
of  persecuting  my  poor  Minny." 

The  foolish  scissors  have  slipped  too  far  over  the  knuckles, 
it  seems,  and  Hercules  holds  out  his  entrapped  fingers  hope- 
lessly. 

"  Confound  the  scissors  !  The  oval  lies  the  wrong  way. 
Please,  draw  them  off  for  me." 

'•Draw  them  off  with  your  other  hand,"  says  Miss  Lucy, 
roguishly. 


334  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Oh,  but  that 's  my  left  hand  ;  I  'm  not  left-handed." 

Lucy  laughs,  and  the  scissors  are  drawn  off  with  gentle 
touches  from  tiny  tips,  which  naturally  dispose  Mr.  Stephen 
for  a  repetition  da  capo.  Accordingly,  he  watches  for  the 
release  of  the  scissors,  that  he  may  get  them  into  his  pos- 
session again. 

"No,  no,"  said  Lucy,  sticking  them  in  her  band,  "you  shall 
not  have  my  scissors  again,  —  you  have  strained  them  already. 
Now  don't  set  Minny  growling  again.  Sit  up  and  behave  prop- 
erly, and  then  I  will  tell  you  some  news." 

"What  is  that?"  said  Stephen,  throwing  himself  back  and 
hanging  his  right  arm  over  the  corner  of  his  chair.  He  might 
have  been  sitting  for  his  portrait,  which  would  have  repre- 
sented a  rather  striking  young  man  of  five-and-twenty,  with  a 
square  forehead,  short  dark-brown  hair,  standing  erect,  with  a 
slight  wave  at  the  end,  like  a  thick  crop  of  corn,  and  a  half- 
ardent,  half-sarcastic  glance  from  under  his  well-marked  hori- 
zontal eyebrows.  "  Is  it  very  important  news  ?  " 

"Yes,  very.     Guess." 

"  You  are  going  to  change  Minny's  diet,  and  give  him  three 
ratafias  soaked  in  a  dessert-spoonful  of  cream  daily  ?  " 

"  Quite  wrong." 

"  Well,  then,  Dr.  Kenn  has  been  preaching  against  buckram, 
and  you  ladies  have  all  been  sending  him  a  round-robin,  saying, 
'  This  is  a  hard  doctrine ;  who  can  bear  it  ?  " 

"  For  shame ! "  said  Lucy,  adjusting  her  little  mouth  gravely. 
"  It  is  rather  dull  of  you  not  to  guess  my  news,  because  it  is 
about  something  I  mentioned  to  you  not  very  long  ago." 

"  But  you  have  mentioned  many  things  to  me  not  long  ago. 
Does  your  feminine  tyranny  require  that  when  you  say  the 
thing  you  mean  is  one  of  several  things,  I  should  know  it 
immediately  by  that  mark  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  think  I  am  silly." 

"  I  think  you  are  perfectly  charming." 

"  And  my  silliness  is  part  of  my  charm  ?  " 

"I  didn't  say  that." 

"  But  I  know  you  like  women  to  be  rather  insipid.  Philip 
Wakem  betrayed  you ;  he  said  so  one  day  when  you  were  not 
here." 

"Oh,  I  know  Phil  is  fierce  on  that  point;  he  makes  it 
quite  a  personal  matter.  I  think  he  must  be  love-sick  for 
some  unknown  lady,  —  some  exalted  Beatrice  whom  he  met 
abroad." 

"  By  the  by,"  said  Lucy,  pausing  in  her  work,  "  it  has  just 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  835 

occurred  to  me  that  I  have  never  found  out  whether  my  cousin 
Maggie  will  object  to  see  Philip,  as  her  brother  does.  Tom 
will  not  enter  a  room  where  Philip  is,  if  he  knows  it ;  perhaps 
Maggie  may  be  the  same,  and  then  we  sha'n't  be  able  to  sing 
our  glees,  shall  we  ?  " 

"  What !  is  your  cousin  coming  to  stay  with  you  ?  "  said 
Stephen,  with  a  look  of  slight  annoyance. 

"  Yes ;  that  was  my  news,  which  you  have  forgotten.  She 's 
going  to  leave  her  situation,  where  she  has  been  nearly  two 
years,  poor  thing,  —  ever  since  her  father's  death;  and  she 
will  stay  with  me  a  month  or  two,  —  many  months,  I  hope." 

"  And  am  I  bound  to  be  pleased  at  that  news  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  not  at  all,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  little  air  of  pique. 
"  /  am  pleased,  but  that,  of  course,  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  be  pleased.  There  is  no  girl  in  the  world  I  love 
so  Avell  as  my  cousin  Maggie." 

"And  you  will  be  inseparable,  I  suppose,  when  she  comes. 
There  will  be  no  possibility  of  a  tete-a-tete  with  you  any  more, 
unless  you  can  find  an  admirer  for  her,  who  will  pair  off  with 
her  occasionally.  What  is  the  ground  of  dislike  to  Philip  ? 
He  might  have  been  a  resource." 

"It  is  a  family  quarrel  with  Philip's  father.  There  were 
very  painful  circumstances,  I  believe.  I  never  quite  under- 
stood them,  or  knew  them  all.  My  uncle  Tulliver  was  unfor- 
tunate and  lost  all  his  property,  and  I  think  he  considered  Mr. 
Wakem  was  somehow  the  cause  of  it.  Mr.  Wakem  bought 
Dorlcote  Mill,  my  uncle's  old  place,  where  he  always  lived. 
You  must  remember  my  uncle  Tulliver,  don't  you  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Stephen,  with  rather  supercilious  indifference. 
'•'  I  've  always  known  the  name,  and  I  daresay  I  knew  the  man 
by  sight,  apart  from  his  name.  I  know  half  the  names 
and  faces  in  the  neighbourhood  in  that  detached,  disjointed 
way." 

"  He  was  a  very  hot-tempered  man.  I  remember,  when 
I  was  a  little  girl  and  used  to  go  to  see  my  cousins,  he  often 
frightened  me  by  talking  as  if  he  were  angry.  Papa  told  me 
there  was  a  dreadful  quarrel,  the  very  day  before  my  uncle's 
death,  between  him  and  Mr.  Wakem,  but  it  was  hushed  up. 
That  was  when  you  were  in  London.  Papa  says  my  uncle  was 
quite  mistaken  in  many  ways  ;  his  mind  had  become  embit- 
tered. But  Tom  and  Maggie  must  naturally  feel  it  very 
painful  to  be  reminded  of  these  things.  They  have  had  so 
much,  so  very  much  trouble.  Maggie  was  at  school  with 
me  six  years  ago,  when  she  was  fetched  away  because  of 


336  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

her  father's  misfortunes,  and  she  has  hardly  had  any  pleasure 
since,  I  think.  She  has  been  in  a  dreary  situation  in  a  school 
since  uncle's  death,  because  she  is  determined  to  be  inde- 
pendent, and  not  live  with  aunt  Pullet;  and  I  could  hardly 
wish  her  to  come  to  me  then,  because  dear  mamma  was  ill, 
and  everything  was  so  sad.  That  is  why  I  want  her  to  come 
to  me  now,  and  have  a  long,  long  holiday." 

"  Very  sweet  and  angelic  of  you,"  said  Stephen,  looking 
at  her  with  an  admiring  smile;  "and  all  the  more  so  if 
she  has  the  conversational  qualities  of  her  mother." 

"  Poor  aunty  !  You  are  cruel  to  ridicule  her.  She  is  very 
valuable  to  me,  I  know.  She  manages  the  house  beautifully, 
—  much  better  than  any  stranger  would,  —  and  she  was  a 
great  comfort  to  me  in  mamma's  illness." 

"  Yes,  but  in  point  of  companionship,  one  would  prefer  that 
she  should  be  represented  by  her  brandy-cherries  and  cream- 
cakes.  I  think  with  a  shudder  that  her  daughter  will  always 
be  present  in  person,  and  have  no  agreeable  proxies  of  that 
kind,  —  a  fat,  blond  girl,  with  round  blue  eyes,  who  will  stare 
at  us  silently." 

"  Oh  yes  ! "  exclaimed  Lucy,  laughing  wickedly,  and  clap- 
ping her  hands,  '"that  is  just  my  cousin  Maggie.  You  must 
have  seen  her  !  " 

"  No,  indeed ;  I  'm  only  guessing  what  Mrs.  Tulliver's 
daughter  must  be  ;  and  then  if  she  is  to  banish  Philip,  our  only 
apology  for  a  tenor,  that  will  be  an  additional  bore." 

"But  I  hope  that  may  not  be.  I  think  I  will  ask  you 
to  call  on  Philip  and  tell  him  Maggie  is  coming  to-morrow. 
He  is  quite  aware  of  Tom's  feeling,  and  always  keeps  out 
of  his  way;  so  he  will  understand,  if  you  tell  him,  that  I 
asked  you  to  warn  him  not  to  come  until  I  write  to  ask 
him." 

"  I  think  you  had  better  write  a  pretty  note  for  me  to  take ; 
Phil  is  so  sensitive,  you  know,  the  least  thing  might  frighten 
him  off  coming  at  all,  and  we  had  hard  work  to  get  him.  I 
can  never  induce  him  to  come  to  the  park ;  he  does  n't  like  my 
sisters,  I  think.  It  is  only  your  faery  touch  that  can  lay  his 
ruffled  feathers." 

Stephen  mastered  the  little  hand  that  was  straying  towards 
the  table,  and  touched  it  lightly  with  his  lips.  Little  Lucy 
felt  very  proud  and  happy.  She  and  Stephen  were  in  that 
stage  of  courtship  which  makes  the  most  exquisite  moment  of 
youth,  the  freshest  blossom-time  of  passion,  —  when  each  is 
sure  of  the  other's  love,  but  no  formal  declaration  has  been 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  337 

made,  and  all  is  mutual  divination,  exalting  the  most  trivial 
word,  the  lightest  gesture,  into  thrills  delicate  and  delicious  as 
wafted  jasmine  scent.  The  explicitness  of  an  engagement 
wears  off  this  finest  edge  of  susceptibility;  it  is  jasmine 
gathered  and  presented  in  a  large  bouquet. 

"  But  it  is  really  odd  that  you  should  have  hit  so  exactly  on 
Maggie's  appearance  and  manners,"  said  the  cunning  Lucy, 
moving  to  reach  her  desk,  "  because  she  might  have  been  like 
her  brother,  you  know ;  and  Tom  has  not  round  eyes  ;  and  he 
is  as  far  as  possible  from  staring  at  people." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  he  is  like  the  father;  he  seems  to  be  as 
proud  as  Lucifer.  Not  a  brilliant  companion,  though,  I  should 
think." 

"  I  like  Tom.  He  gave  me  my  Minny  when  I  lost  Lolo : 
and  papa  is  very  fond  of  him :  he  says  Tom  has  excellent 
principles.  It  was  through  him  that  his  father  was  able  to 
pay  all  his  debts  before  he  died." 

"  Oh,  ah  ;  I  've  heard  about  that.  I  heard  your  father  and 
mine  talking  about  it  a  little  while  ago,  after  dinner,  in  one  of 
their  interminable  discussions  about  business.  They  think  of 
doing  something  for  young  Tulliver ;  he  saved  them,  from  a 
considerable  loss  by  riding  home  in  some  marvellous  way,  like 
Turpin,  to  bring  them  news  about  the  stoppage  of  a  bank, 
or  something  of  that  sort.  But  I  was  rather  drowsy  at  the 
time." 

Stephen  rose  from  his  seat,  and  sauntered  to  the  piano, 
humming  in  falsetto,  "Graceful  Consort,"  as  he  turned  over 
the  volume  of  "  The  Creation,"  which  stood  open  on  the  desk. 

"  Come  and  sing  this,"  he  said,  when  he  saw  Lucy  rising. 

"  What,  '  Graceful  Consort '  ?  I  don't  think  it  suits  your 
voice." 

"  Never  mind ;  it  exactly  suits  my  feeling,  which,  Philip 
will  have  it,  is  the  grand  element  of  good  singing.  I  notice 
men  with  indifferent  voices  are  usually  of  that  opinion." 

"Philip  burst  into  one  of  his  invectives  against  The 
Creation '  the  other  day,"  said  Lucy,  seating  herself  at  the 
piano.  "He  says  it  has  a  sort  of  sugared  complacency  and 
flattering  make-believe  in  it,  as  if  it  were  written  for  the 
birthday  fete  of  a  German  Grand-Duke." 

"  Oh,  pooh  !  He  is  the  fallen  Adam  with  a  soured  temper. 
We  are  Adam  and  Eve  unfallen,  in  Paradise.  Now,  then,  — 
the  recitative,  for  the  sake  of  the  moral.  You  will  sing  the 
whole  duty  of  woman,  — '  And  from  obedience  grows  my  pride 
and  happiness.' " 


338  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Oh  no,  I  shall  not  respect  an  Adam  who  drags  the  tempo, 
as  you  will,"  said  Lucy,  beginning  to  play  the  duet. 

Surely  the  only  courtship  unshaken  by  doubts  and  fears 
must  be  that  in  which  the  lovers  can  sing  together.  The 
sense  of  mutual  fitness  that  springs  from  the  two  deep  notes 
fulfilling  expectation  just  at  the  right  moment  between  the 
notes  of  the  silvery  soprano,  from  the  perfect  accord  of  de- 
cending  thirds  and  fifths,  from  the  preconcerted  loving  chase 
of  a  fugue,  is  likely  enough  to  supersede  any  immediate  de- 
mand for  less  impassioned  forms  of  agreement.  The  contralto 
will  not  care  to  catechise  the  bass ;  the  tenor  will  foresee  no 
embarrassing  dearth  of  remark  in  evenings  spent  with  the 
lovely  soprano.  In  the  provinces,  too,  where  music  was  so 
scarce  in  that  remote  time,  how  could  the  musical  people 
avoid  falling  in  love  with  each  other  ?  Even  political 
principle  must  have  been  in  danger  of  relaxation  under 
such  circumstances ;  and  the  violin,  faithful  to  rotten  bor- 
oughs, must  have  been  tempted  to  fraternise  in  a  demoralis- 
ing way  with  a  reforming  violoncello.  In  this  case,  the  linnet- 
throated  soprano  and  the  full-toned  bass  singing,  — 

"  With  thee  delight  is  ever  new, 
With  thee  is  lii'e  iucessant  bliss,  " 

believed  what  they  sang  all  the  more  because  they  sang  it. 

"  Now  for  Raphael's  great  song,"  said  Lucy,  when  they  had 
finished  the  duet.  "You  do  the  'heavy  beasts'  to  perfection." 

"  That  sounds  complimentary,"  said  Stephen,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "  By  Jove,  it 's  nearly  half-past  one !  Well,  I  can 
just  sing  this." 

Stephen  delivered  with  admirable  ease  the  deep  notes  rep- 
resenting the  tread  of  the  heavy  beasts ;  but  when  a  singer 
has  an  audience  of  two,  there  is  room  for  divided  sentiments. 
Minny's  mistress  was  charmed ;  but  Minny,  who  had  in- 
trenched himself,  trembling,  in  his  basket  as  soon  as  tho 
music  began,  found  this  thunder  so  little  to  his  taste  that 
he  leaped  out  and  scampered  under  the  remotest  chiffonniar, 
as  the  most  eligible  place  in  which  a  small  dog  could  await 
the  crack  of  doom. 

"Adieu,  'graceful  consort,'"  said  Stephen,  buttoning  his 
coat  across  when  he  had  done  singing,  and  smiling  down 
from  his  tall  height,  with  the  air  of  rather  a  patronising 
lover,  at  the  little  lady  on  the  music-stool.  "  My  bliss  is 
not  incessant,  for  I  must  gallop  home.  I  promised  to  be 
there  at  lunch," 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  339 

"  You  will  not  be  able  to  call  on  Philip,  then  ?  It  is  of  no 
consequence ;  I  have  said  everything  in  my  note." 

"  You  will  be  engaged  with  your  cousin  to-morrow,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"Yes,  we  are  going  to  have  a  little  family-party.  My 
cousin  Tom  will  dine  with  us ;  and  poor  aunty  will  have 
her  two  children  together  for  the  first  time.  It  will  be 
very  pretty ;  I  think  a  great  deal  about  it." 

'•  But  1  may  come  the  next  day  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  !  Come  and  be  introduced  to  my  cousin  Maggie ; 
though  you  can  hardly  be  said  not  to  have  seen  her,  you  have 
described  her  so  well." 

"  Good-bye,  then."  And  there  was  that  slight  pressure  of  the 
hands,  and  momentary  meeting  of  the  eyes,  which  will  often 
leave  a  little  lady  with  a  slight  flush  and  smile  on  her  face 
that  do  not  subside  immediately  when  the  door  is  closed,  and 
with  an  inclination  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  rather 
than  to  seat  herself  quietly  at  her  embroidery,  or  other 
rational  and  improving  occupation.  At  least  this  was  the 
effect  on  Lucy ;  and  you  will  not,  I  hope,  consider  it  an  in- 
dication of  vanity  predominating  over  more  tender  impulses, 
that  she  just  glanced  in  the  chimney-glass  as  her  walk  brought 
her  near  it.  The  desire  to  know  that  one  has  not  looked  an 
absolute  fright  during  a  few  hours  of  conversation  may  be 
construed  as  lying  within  the  bounds  of  a  laudable  benevo- 
lent consideration  for  others.  And  Lucy  had  so  much  of 
this  benevolence  in  her  nature  that  I  am  inclined  to  think  her 
small  egoisms  were  impregnated  with  it,  just  as  there  are 
people  not  altogether  unknown  to  you,  whose  small  benevo- 
lences have  a  predominant  and  somewhat  rank  odour  of 
egoism.  Even  now,  that  she  is  walking  up  and  down  with 
a  little  triumphant  flutter  of  her  girlish  heart  at  the  sense 
that  she  is  loved  by  the  person  of  chief  consequence  in  her 
small  world,  you  may  see  in  her  hazel  eyes  an  ever-present 
sunny  benignity,  in  which  the  momentary  harmless  flashes  of 
personal  vanity  are  quite  lost ;  and  if  she  is  happy  in  think- 
ing of  her  lover,  it  is  because  the  thought  of  him  mingles 
readily  with  all  the  gentle  affections  and  good-natured  offices 
with  which  she  fills  her  peaceful  days.  Even  now,  her  mind, 
with  that  instantaneous  alternation  which  makes  two  currents 
of  feeling  or  imagination  seem  simultaneous,  is  glancing  con- 
tinually from  Stephen  to  the  preparations  she  has  only  half 
finished  in  Maggie's  room.  Cousin  Maggie  should  be  treated 
as  well  as  the  grandest  lady-visitor,  —  nay,  better,  for  she 


340  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

should  have  Lucy's  best  prints  and  drawings  in  her  bedroom, 
and  the  very  finest  bouquet  of  spring  flowers  on  her  table. 
-Maggie  would  enjoy  all  that,  she  was  so  fond  of  pretty 
things  !  And  there  was  poor  aunt  Tulliver,  that  no  one  made 
any  account  of,  she  was  to  be  surprised  with  the  present  of 
a  cap  of  superlative  quality,  and  to  have  her  health  drunk  in 
a  gratifying  manner,  for  which  Lucy  was  going  to  lay  a  plot 
with  her  father  this  evening.  Clearly,  she  had  not  time  to 
indulge  in  long  reveries  about  her  own  happy  love-affair^ 
With  this  thought  she  walked  towards  the  door,  but  paused 
there. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  then,  Minny  ?  "  she  said,  stooping  in 
answer  to  some  whimpering  of  that  small  quadruped,  and 
lifting  his  glossy  head  against  her  pink  cheek.  "  Did  you 
think  I  was  going  without  you  ?  Come,  then,  let  us  go  and 
see  Sinbad." 

Sinbad  was  Lucy's  chestnut  horse,  that  she  always  fed  with 
her  own  hand  when  he  was  turned  out  in  the  paddock.  She 
was  fond  of  feeding  dependent  creatures,  and  knew  the  pri- 
vate tastes  of  all  the  animals  about  the  house,  delighting  in 
the  little  rippling  sounds  of  her  canaries  when  their  beaks 
were  busy  with  fresh  seed,  and  in  the  small  nibbling  pleasures 
of  certain  animals  which,  lest  she  should  appear  too  trivial,  I 
will  here  call  "  the  more  familiar  rodents." 

Was  not  Stephen  Guest  right  in  his  decided  opinion  that 
this  slim  maiden  of  eighteen  Avas  quite  the  sort  of  wife  a  man 
would  not  be  likely  to  repent  of  marrying, — a  woman  who 
was  loving  and  thoughtful  for  other  women,  not  giving  them 
Judas-kisses  with  eyes  askance  on  their  welcome  defects,  but 
with  real  care  and  vision  for  their  half-hidden  pains  and  mor- 
tifications, with  long  ruminating  enjoyment  of  little  pleasures 
prepared  for  them  ?  Perhaps  the  emphasis  of  his  admiration 
did  not  fall  precisely  on  this  rarest  quality  in  her;  perhaps 
he  approved  his  own  choice  of  her  chiefly  because  she  did  not 
strike  him  as  a  remarkable  rarity.  A  man  likes  his  wife  to  be 
pretty ;  well,  Lucy  was  pretty,  but  not  to  a  maddening  extent. 
A  man  likes  his  wife  to  be  accomplished,  gentle,  affectionate. 
and  not  stupid  ;  and  Lucy  had  all  these  qualifications.  Stephen 
was  not  surprised  to  find  himself  in  love  with  her,  and  was 
conscious  of  excellent  judgment  in  preferring  her  to  Miss 
Leyburn,  the  daughter  of  the  county  member,  although  Lucy 
was  only  the  daughter  of  his  father's  subordinate  partner ;  be- 
sides, he  had  had  to  defy  and  overcome  a  slight  unwillingness 
and  disappointment  in  his  father  and  sisters,  —  a  circumstance 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  341 

which  gives  a  young  man  an  agreeable  consciousness  of  his 
own  dignity.  Stephen  was  aware  that  he  had  sense  and  in- 
dependence enough  to  choose  the  wife  who  was  likely  to  make 
him  happy,  unbiassed  by  any  indirect  considerations.  He 
meant  to  choose  Lucy ;  she  was  a  little  darling,  and  exactly 
the  sort  of  woman  he  had  always  most  admired. 


CHAPTEE   II. 

FIRST    IMPBESSIONS. 

"  HE  is  very  clever,  Maggie,"  said  Lucy.  She  was  kneeling 
on  a  footstool  at  Maggie's  feet,  after  placing  that  dark  lady  in 
the  large  crimson-velvet  chair.  "  I  feel  sure  you  will  like 
him.  I  hope  you  will." 

"  I  shall  be  very  difficult  to  please,"  said  Maggie,  smiling, 
and  holding  up  one  of  Lucy's  long  curls,  that  the  sunlight 
might  shine  through  it.  "  A  gentleman  who  thinks  he  is  good 
enough  for  Lucy  must  expect  to  be  sharply  criticised." 

"  Indeed,  he 's  a  great  deal  too  good  for  me.  And  sometimes, 
when  he  is  away,  I  almost  think  it  can't  really  be  that  he 
loves  me.  But  I  can  never  doubt  it  when  he  is  with  me, 
though  I  could  n't  bear  any  one  but  you  to  know  that  I  feel  in 
that  way,  Maggie." 

"Oh,  then,  if  I  disapprove  of  him  you  can  give  him  up, 
since  you  are  not  engaged,"  said  Maggie,  with  playful  gravity. 

"  I  would  rather  not  be  engaged.  When  people  are  engaged, 
they  begin  to  think  of  being  married  soon,"  said  Lucy,  too 
thoroughly  preoccupied  to  notice  Maggie's  joke ;  "  and  I  should 
like  everything  to  go  on  for  a  long  while  just  as  it  is.  Some- 
times I  am  quite  frightened  lest  Stephen  should  say  that  he 
has  spoken  to  papa ;  and  from  something  that  fell  from  papa 
the  other  day,  I  feel  sure  he  and  Mr.  Guest  are  expecting  that. 
And  Stephen's  sisters  are  very  civil  to  me  now.  At  first,  I 
think  they  did  n't  like  his  paying  me  attention ;  and  that  was 
natural.  It  does  seem  out  of  keeping  that  I  should  ever  live 
in  a  great  place  like  the  Park  House,  —  such  a  little  insignifi- 
cant thing  as  I  am." 

"  But  people  are  not  expected  to  be  large  in  proportion  to 
the  houses  they  live  in,  like  snails,"  said  Maggie,  laughing. 
"  Pray,  are  Mr.  Guest's  sisters  giantesses  ?  " 


342  THE  MILL    &N   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Oh  no ;  and  not  handsome,  —  that  is,  not  very,"  said  Lucy, 
half-penitent  at  this  uncharitable  remark.  "  But  he  is  —  at 
least  he  is  generally  considered  very  handsome." 

"  Though  you  are  unable  to  share  that  opinion  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Lucy,  blushing  pink  over  brow  and 
neck.     "  It  is  a  bad  plan  to  raise  expectation ;  you  will  per- 
haps be  disappointed.     But  I  have  prepared  a  charming  sui 
prise  for  him  ;  I  shrill  have  a  glorious  laugh  against  him.     ' 
shall  not  tell  you  what  it  is,  though." 

Lucy  rose  from  her  knees  and  went  to  a  little  distance,  hold 
ing  her  pretty  head  on  one  side,  as  if  she  had  been  arranging 
Maggie  for  a  portrait,  and  wished  to  judge  of  the  general 
effect. 

"  Stand  up  a  moment,  Maggie." 

"  What  is  your  pleasure  now  ?  "  said  Maggie,  smiling  lan- 
guidly as  she  rose  from  her  chair  and  looked  down  on  her 
slight,  aerial  cousin,  whose  figure  was  quite  subordinate  to  her 
faultless  drapery  of  silk  and  crape. 

Lucy  kept  her  contemplative  attitude  a  moment  or  two  in 
silence,  and  then  said,  — 

"  I  can't  think  what  witchery  it  is  in  you,  Maggie,  that 
makes  you  look  best  in  shabby  clothes ;  though  you  really 
miast  have  a  new  dress  now.  But  do  you  know,  last  night  I 
was  trying  to  fancy  you  in  a  handsome,  fashionable  dress,  and 
do  what  I  would,  that  old  limp  merino  would  come  back  as  the 
only  right  thing  for  you.  I  wonder  if  Marie  Antoinette  looked 
all  the  grander  when  her  gown  was  darned  at  the  elbows. 
Now,  if  ./"were  to  put  anything  shabby  on,  I  should  be  quite 
unnoticeable.  I  should  be  a  mere  rag." 

"  Oh,  quite,"  said  Maggie,  with  mock  gravity.  "  You  would 
be  liable  to  be  swept  out  of  the  room  with  the  cobwebs  and 
carpet-dust,  and  to  find  yourself  under  the  grate,  like  Cinder- 
ella. May  n't  I  sit  down  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  now  you  may,"  said  Lucy,  laughing.  Then,  with  an 
air  of  serious  reflection,  unfastening  her  large  jet  brooch, 
"  But  you  must  change  brooches,  Maggie ;  that  little  butterfly 
looks  silly  on  you." 

"  But  won't  that  mar  the  charming  effect  of  my  consistent 
shabbiness  ?  "  said  Maggie,  seating  herself  submissively,  while 
Lucy  knelt  again  and  unfastened  the  contemptible  butterfly. 
"  I  wish  my  mother  were  of  your  opinion,  for  she  was  fretting 
last  night  because  this  is  my  best  frock.  I  've  been  saving  my 
money  to  pay  for  some  lessons ;  I  shall  never  get  a  bettei 
situation  without  more  accomplishments." 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  343 

Maggie  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"  Now,  don't  put  on  that  sad  look  again,"  said  Lucy,  pinning 
the  large  brooch  below  Maggie's  fine  throat.  "  You  're  forget- 
ting that  you  've  left  that  dreary  schoolroom  behind  you,  and 
have  no  little  girls'  clothes  to  mend." 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie.  "  It  is  with  me  as  I  used  to  think  it 
would  be  with  the  poor  uneasy  white  bear  I  saw  at  the  show. 
I  thought  he  must  have  got  so  stupid  with  the  habit  of  turning 
backwards  and  forwards  in  that  narrow  space,  that  he  would 
keep  doing  it  if  they  set  him  free.  One  gets  a  bad  habit  of 
being  unhappy." 

"But  I  shall  put  you  under  a  discipline  of  pleasure  that 
will  make  you  lose  that  bad  habit,"  said  Lucy,  sticking  the 
black  butterfly  absently  in  her  own  collar,  while  her  eyes  met 
Maggie's  affectionately. 

"  You  dear,  tiny  thing,"  said  Maggie,  in  one  of  her  bursts  of 
loving  admiration,  "you  enjoy  other  people's  happiness  so 
much,  I  believe  you  would  do  without  any  of  your  own.  I 
wish  I  were  like  you." 

"  I  've  never  been  tried  in  that  way,"  said  Lucy.  "  I  've 
always  been  so  happy.  I  don't  know  whether  I  could  bear 
much  trouble ;  I  never  had  any  but  poor  mamma's  death. 
You  have  been  tried,  Maggie ;  and  I  'in  sure  you  feel  for  other 
people  quite  as  much  as  I  do." 

"  No,  Lucy,"  said  Maggie,  shaking  her  head  slowly,  "  I 
don't  enjoy  their  happiness  as  you  do,  else  I  should  be  more 
contented.  I  do  feel  for  them  when  they  are  in  trouble ;  I 
don't  think  I  could  ever  bear  to  make  any  one  wnhappy ;  and 
yet  I  often  hate  myself,  because  I  get  angry  sometimes  at  the 
sight  of  happy  people.  I  think  I  get  worse  as  I  get  older, 
more  selfish.  That  seems  very  dreadful." 

"  Now,  Maggie  ! "  said  Lucy,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance,  "  I 
don't  believe  a  word  of  that.  It  is  all  a  gloomy  fancy,  just 
because  you  are  depressed  by  a  dull,  wearisome  life." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is,"  said  Maggie,  resolutely  clearing  away 
the  clouds  from  her  face  with  a  bright  smile,  and  throwing 
herself  backward  in  her  chair.  "  Perhaps  it  comes  from  the 
school  diet,  —  watery  rice-pudding  spiced  with  Pinnock.  Let 
us  hope  it  will  give  way  before  my  mother's  custards  and  this 
charming  Geoffrey  Crayon." 

Maggie  took  up  the  "  Sketch  Book,"  which  lay  by  her  on  the 
table. 

"  Do  I  look  fit  to  be  seen  with  this  little  brooch  ? "  said 
Lucy,  going  to  survey  the  effect  in  the  chimney-glass. 


344  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  Oh  no,  Mr.  Guest  will  be  obliged  to  go  out  of  the  room 
again  if  he  sees  you  in  it.  Pray  make  haste  and  put  another 
on." 

Lucy  hurried  out  of  the  room,  but  Maggie  did  not  take  the 
opportunity  of  opening  her  book ;  she  let  it  fall  on  her  knees, 
while  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  window,  where  she  could  see 
the  sunshine  falling  on  the  rich  clumps  of  spring  flowers  and 
on  the  long  hedge  of  laurels,  and  beyond,  the  silvery  breadth 
of  the  dear  old  Floss,  that  at  this  distance  seemed  to  be  sleep- 
ing in  a  morning  holiday.  The  sweet  fresh  garden-scent  cum:- 
through  the  open  window,  and  the  birds  were  busy  flitting  and 
alighting,  gurgling  and  singing.  Yet  Maggie's  eyes  began  to 
fill  with  tears.  The  sight  of  the  old  scenes  had  made  the  rush 
of  memories  so  painful,  that  even  yesterday  she  had  only  been 
able  to  rejoice  in  her  mother's  restored  comfort  and  Tom's 
brotherly  friendliness  as  we  rejoice  in  good  news  of  friends  at 
a  distance,  rather  than  in  the  presence  of  a  happiness  which 
we  share.  Memory  and  imagination  urged  upon  her  a  sense  of 
privation  too  keen  to  let  her  taste  what  was  offered  in  the 
transient  present.  Her  future,  she  thought,  was  likely  to  be 
worse  than  her  past,  for  after  her  years  of  contented  renun- 
ciation, she  had  slipped  back  into  desire  and  longing;  she 
found  joyless  days  of  distasteful  occupation  harder  and  harder ; 
she  found  the  image  of  the  intense  and  varied  life  she 
yearned  for,  and  despaired  of,  becoming  more  and  more 
importunate.  The  sound  of  the  opening  door  roused  her,  and 
hastily  wiping  away  her  tears,  she  began  to  turn  over  the 
leaves  of  her  book. 

"  There  is  one  pleasure,  I  know,  Maggie,  that  your  deepest 
dismalness  will  never  resist,"  said  Lucy,  beginning  to  speak 
as  soon  as  she  entered  the  room.  "  That  is  music,  and  I  mean 
you  to  have  quite  a  riotous  feast  of  it.  I  mean  you  to  get  up 
your  playing  again,  which  used  to  be  so  much  better  than 
mine,  when  we  were  at  Laceham." 

"  You  would  have  laughed  to  see  me  playing  the  little  girls' 
tunes  over  and  over  to  them,  when  I  took  them  to  practice," 
said  Maggie,  "  just  for  the  sake  of  fingering  the  dear  keys 
again.  But  I  don't  know  whether  I  could  play  anything  more 
difficult  now  than  '  Begone,  dull  care ! ' ' 

"  I  know  what  a  wild  state  of  joy  you  used  to  be  in  when 

the  glee-men  came  round,"  said  Lucy,  taking  up  her  embroi- 

(Irry;  "and  we  might  have  all  those  old  glees  that  you  used 

•  to  love  so,  if  I  were  certain  that  you  don't  feel  exactly  as 

Tom  does  about  some  things." 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  845 

"I  should  have  thought  there  was  nothing  you  might  be 
more  certain  of,"  said  Maggie,  smiling. 

"  I  ought  rather  to  have  said,  one  particular  thing.  Because 
if  you  feel  just  as  he  does  about  that,  we  shall  want  our  third 
voice.  St.  Ogg's  is  so  miserably  provided  with  musical  gen- 
tlemen. There  are  really  only  Stephen  and  Philip  Wakem 
who  have  any  knowledge  of  music,  so  as  to  be  able  to  sing  a 
part." 

Lucy  had  looked  up  from  her  work  as  she  uttered  the  last 
sentence,  and  saw  that  there  was  a  change  in  Maggie's  face. 

"  Does  it  hurt  you  to  hear  the  name  mentioned,  Maggie  ? 
If  it  does,  I  will  not  speak  of  him  again.  I  know  Tom  will 
not  see  him  if  he  can  avoid  it." 

"  I  don't  feel  at  all  as  Tom  does  on  that  subject,"  said  Mag- 
gie, rising  and  going  to  the  window  as  if  she  wanted  to  see 
more  of  the  landscape.  "  I  've  always  liked  Philip  Wakem 
ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  saw  him  at  Lorton.  He  was 
so  good  when  Tom  hurt  his  foot." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad !  "  said  Lucy.  "  Then  you  won't  mind 
his  coming  sometimes,  and  we  can  have  much  more  music  than 
we  could  without  him.  I  'm  very  fond  of  poor  Philip,  only  I 
wish  he  were  not  so  morbid  about  his  deformity.  I  suppose 
it  is  his  deformity  that  makes  him  so  sad,  and  sometimes  bit- 
ter. It  is  certainly  very  piteous  to  see  his  poor  little  crooked 
body  and  pale  face  among  great  strong  people." 

"But,  Lucy  — "  said  Maggie,  trying  to  arrest  the  prattling 
stream. 

"  Ah,  there  is  the  door-bell.  That  must  be  Stephen,"  Lucy 
went  on,  not  noticing  Maggie's  faint  effort  to  speak.  "  One 
of  the  things  I  most  admire  in  Stephen  is  that  he  makes  a 
greater  friend  of  Philip  than  any  one." 

It  was  too  late  for  Maggie  to  speak  now ;  the  drawing-room 
door  was  opening,  and  Minny  was  already  growling  in  a  small 
way  at  the  entrance  of  a  tall  gentleman,  who  went  up  to  Lucy 
and  took  her  hand  with  a  half-polite,  half-tender  glance  and  tone 
of  inquiry,  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  unconscious 
of  any  other  presence. 

"  Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  cousin,  Miss  Tulliver,"  said 
Lucy,  turning  with  wicked  enjoyment  towards  Maggie,  who 
now  approached  from  the  farther  window.  "This  is  Mr. 
Stephen  Guest." 

For  one  instant  Stephen  could  not  conceal  his  astonishment 
at  the  sight  of  this  tall,  dark-eyed  nymph  with  her  jet-black 
coronet  of  hair;  the  next,  Maggie  felt  herself,  for  the  first 


346  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

time  in  her  life,  receiving  the  tribute  of  a  very  deep  blush  and 
a  very  deep  bow  from  a  person  towards  whom  she  herself  was 
conscious  of  timidity.  This  new  experience  was  very  agree- 
able to  her,  so  agreeable  that  it  almost  effaced  her  previous 
emotion  about  Philip.  There  was  a  new  brightness  in  her 
eyes,  and  a  very  becoming  flush  on  her  cheek,  as  she  seated 
herself. 

"  I  hope  you  perceive  what  a  striking  likeness  you  drew  th<^ 
day  before  yesterday,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  pretty  laugh  of  tri 
umph.  She  enjoyed  her  lover's  confusion ;  the  advantage  was 
usually  on  his  side. 

"This  designing  cousin  of  yours  quite  deceived  me,  Miss 
Tulliver,"  said  Stephen,  seating  himself  by  Lucy,  and  stoop- 
ing to  play  with  Minny,  only  looking  at  Maggie  furtively. 
"  She  said  you  had  light  hair  and  blue  eyes." 

"Nay,  it  was  you  who  said  so,"  remonstrated  Lucy.  "I 
only  refrained  from  destroying  your  confidence  in  your  own 
second-sight." 

"  I  wish  I  could  always  err  in  the  same  way,"  said  Ste- 
phen, "  and  find  reality  so  much  more  beautiful  than  my 
preconceptions." 

"Now  you  have  proved  yourself  equal  to  the  occasion," 
said  Maggie,  "  and  said  what  it  was  incumbent  on  you  to  say 
under  the  circumstances." 

She  flashed  a  slightly  defiant  look  at  him ;  it  was  clear  to 
her  that  he  had  been  drawing  a  satirical  portrait  of  her  be- 
forehand. Lucy  had  said  he  was  inclined  to  be  satirical, 
and  Maggie  had  mentally  supplied  the  addition,  "and  rather 
conceited." 

"  An  alarming  amount  of  devil  there,"  was  Stephen's  first 
thought.  The  second,  when  she  had  bent  over  her  work,  was, 
"I  wish  she  would  look  at  me  again."  The  next  was  to 
answer,  — 

"  I  suppose  all  phrases  of  mere  compliment  have  their  turn 
to  be  true.     A  man  is   occasionally  grateful  when   he   says 
'Thank  you.'     It's  rather  hard  upon  him  that  he  must  us. 
same  words  with  which  all  the  world  declines  a  disagreeable 
invitation,  don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Tulliver  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  looking  at  him  with  her  direct  glance ; 

"  if  we  use  common  words  on  a  great  occasion,  they  are  the 

more  striking,  because  they  are  felt  at  once  to  have  a  particu- 

'  lar  meaning,  like  old  banners,  or  every-day  clothes,  hung  up 

k  in  a  sacred  place." 

"  Then  my  compliment  ought  to  be  eloquent,"  said  Stephen, 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  347 

really  not  quite  knowing  what  he  said  while  Maggie  looked 
at  him,  "seeing  that  the  words  were  so  far  beneath  the 
occasion." 

"  No  compliment  can  be  eloquent,  except  as  an  expression 
of  indifference,"  said  Maggie,  flushing  a  little. 

Lucy  was  rather  alarmed ;  she  thought  Stephen  and  Maggie 
were  not  going  to  like  each  other.  She  had  always  feared  lest 
Maggie  should  appear  too  odd  and  clever  to  please  that  critical 
gentleman.  "  Why,  dear  Maggie,"  she  interposed,  "  you  have 
always  pretended  that  you  are  too  fond  of  being  admired ; 
and  now,  I  think,  you  are  angry  because  some  one  ventures  to 
admire  you." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Maggie ;  "  I  like  too  well  to  feel  that  I 
am  admired,  but  compliments  never  make  me  feel  that." 

"  I  will  never  pay  you  a  compliment  again,  Miss  Tulliver," 
said  Stephen. 

"  Thank  you ;  that  will  be  a  proof  of  respect." 

Poor  Maggie !  She  was  so  unused  to  society  that  she  could 
take  nothing  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  had  never  in  her  life 
spoken  from  the  lips  merely,  so  that  she  must  necessarily  ap- 
pear absurd  to  more  experienced  ladies,  from  the  excessive 
feeling  she  was  apt  to  throw  into  very  trivial  incidents.  But 
she  was  even  conscious  herself  of  a  little  absurdity  in  this 
instance.  It  was  true  she  had  a  theoretic  objection  to  compli- 
ments, and  had  once  said  impatiently  to  Philip,  that  she  did  n't 
see  why  women  were  to  be  told  with  a  simper  that  they  were 
beautiful,  any  more  than  old  men  were  to  be  told  that  they 
were  venerable ;  still,  to  be  so  irritated  by  a  common  practice 
in  the  case  of  a  stranger  like  Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  and  to  care 
about  his  having  spoken  slightingly  of  her  before  he  had  seen 
her,  was  certainly  unreasonable,  and  as  soon  as  she  was  silent 
she  began  to  be  ashamed  of  herself.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  her  irritation  was  due  to  the  pleasanter  emotion  which 
preceded  it,  just  as  when  we  are  satisfied  with  a  sense  of  glow- 
ing warmth,  an  innocent  drop  of  cold  water  may  fall  upon  us 
as  a  sudden  smart. 

Stephen  was  too  well-bred  not  to  seem  unaware  that  the 
previous  conversation  could  have  been  felt  embarrassing,  and 
at  once  began  to  talk  of  impersonal  matters,  asking  Lucy  if 
she  knew  when  the  bazaar  was  at  length  to  take  place,  so  that 
there  might  be  some  hope  of  seeing  her  rain  the  influence  of 
her  eyes  on  objects  more  grateful  than  those  worsted  flowers 
that  were  growing  under  her  fingers. 

'•'  Some  day  next  month,  I  believe,"  said  Lucy.     "  But  your 


348  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

sisters  are  doing  more  for  it  than  I  am ;  they  are  to  have  tlie 
largest  stall." 

"Ah  yes  ;  but  they  carry  on  their  manufactures  in  their  own 
sitting-room,  where  I  don't  intrude  on  them.  I  see  you  arc  nut, 
addicted  to  the  fashionable  vice  of  fancy-work,  Miss  Tullivciy ' 
said  Stephen,  looking  at  Maggie's  plain  hemming. 

"No,"  said  Maggie,  "  I  can  do  nothing  more  difficult  or  more 
elegant  than  shirt-making." 

"  And  your  plain  sewing  is  so  beautiful,  Maggie,"  said  Lucy, 
"  that  I  think  I  shall  beg  a  few  specimens  of  you  to  show 
as  fancy-work.  Your  exquisite  sewing  is  quite  a  mystery  to 
me,  you  used  to  dislike  that  sort  of  work  so  much  in  old 
days." 

"  It  is  a  mystery  easily  explained,  dear,"  said  Maggie,  look- 
ing up  quietly.  "  Plain  sewing  was  the  only  thing  I  could  get 
money  by,  so  I  was  obliged  to  try  and  do  it  well." 

Lucy,  good  and  simple  as  she  was,  could  not  help  blushing  a 
little.  She  did  not  quite  like  that  Stephen  should  know  that ; 
Maggie  need  not  have  mentioned  it.  Perhaps  there  was  some 
pride  in  the  confession,  —  the  pride  of  poverty  that  will  not 
be  ashamed  of  itself.  But  if  Maggie  had  been  the  queen  of 
coquettes  she  could  hardly  have  invented  a  means  of  giving 
greater  piquancy  to  her  beauty  in  Stephen's  eyes ;  I  am  not 
sure  that  the  quiet  admission  of  plain  sewing  and  poverty 
would  have  done  alone,  but  assisted  by  the  beauty,  they  made 
Maggie  more  unlike  other  women  even  than  she  had  seemed 
at  first. 

"  But  I  can  knit,  Lucy,"  Maggie  went  on,  "  if  that  will  be  of 
any  use  for  your  bazaar." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  infinite  use.  I  shall  set  you  to  work  with  scar- 
let wool  to-morrow.  But  your  sister  is  the  most  enviable  per- 
son," continued  Lucy,  turning  to  Stephen,  "  to  have  the  talent  of 
modelling.  She  is  doing  a  wonderful  bust  of  Dr.  Kenn  entirely 
from  memory." 

"  Why,  if  she  can  remember  to  put  the  eyes  very  near  to- 
gether, and  the  corners  of  the  mouth  very  far  apart,  the  like- 
ness can  hardly  fail  to  be  striking  in  St.  Ogg's." 

"  Now  that  is  very  wicked  of  you,"  said  Lucy,  looking  rather 
hurt.  "  I  did  n't  think  you  would  speak  disrespectfully  of  Dr. 
Kenn." 

"  I  say  anything  disrespectful  of  Dr.  Kenn  ?  Heaven  for- 
bid !  But  I  am  not  bound  to  respect  a  libellous  bust  of  him. 
I  think  Kenn  one  of  the  finest  fellows  in  the  world.  I  don't 
care  much  about  the  tall  candlesticks  he  has  put  on  the  com- 


THE    GREAT   TEMPTATION.  349 

munion-table,  and  I  should  n't  like  to  spoil  my  temper  by 
getting  up  to  early  prayers  every  morning.  But  he  's  the  only 
man  I  ever  knew  personally  who  seems  to  me  to  have  anything 
of  the  real  apostle  in  him,  —  a  man  who  has  eight  hundred  a- 
year  and  is  contented  with  deal  furniture  and  boiled  beef  be- 
cause he  gives  away  two-thirds  of  his  income.  That  was  a 
very  fine  thing  of  him,  —  taking  into  his  house  that  poor  lad 
Grattan,  who  shot  his  mother  by  accident.  He  sacrifices  more 
time  than  a  less  busy  man  could  spare,  to  save  the  poor  fellow 
from  getting  into  a  morbid  state  of  mind  about  it.  He  takes 
the  lad  out  with  him  constantly,  I  see." 

"  That  is  beautiful,"  said  Maggie,  who  had  let  her  work  fall, 
and  was  listening  with  keen  interest.  "  I  never  knew  any  one 
who  did  such  things." 

"  And  one  admires  that  sort  of  action  in  Kenn  all  the  more," 
said  Stephen,  "  because  his  manners  in  general  are  rather  cold 
and  severe.  There  's  nothing  sugary  and  maudlin  about  him." 

"  Oh,  I  think  he  's  a  perfect  character ! "  said  Lucy,  with 
pretty  enthusiasm. 

"  No ;  there  I  can't  agree  with  you,"  said  Stephen,  shaking 
his  head  with  sarcastic  gravity. 

"  Now,  what  fault  can  you  point  out  in  him  ?  " 

"  He 's  an  Anglican." 

"Well,  those  are  the  right  views,  I  think,"  said  Lucy, 
gravely. 

"  That  settles  the  question  in  the  abstract,"  said  Stephen, 
"  but  not  from  a  parliamentary  point  of  view.  He  has  set  the 
Dissenters  and  the  Church  people  by  the  ears ;  and  a  rising 
senator  like  myself,  of  whose  services  the  country  is  very 
much  in  need,  will  find  it  inconvenient  when  he  puts  up  for 
the  honour  of  representing  St.  Ogg's  in  Parliament." 

"  Do  you  really  think  of  that  ?  "  said  Lucy,  her  eyes  bright- 
ening with  a  proud  pleasure  that  made  her  neglect  the  argu- 
mentative interests  of  Anglicanism. 

"Decidedly,  whenever  old  Mr.  Leyburn's  public  spirit  and 
gout  induce  him  to  give  way.  My  father's  heart  is  set  on  it ; 
and  gifts  like  mine,  you  know  —  "  here  Stephen  drew  himself 
up,  and  rubbed  his  large  white  hands  over  his  hair  with  playful 
self -admiration  —  "  gifts  like  mine  involve  great  responsibil- 
ities. Don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Tulliver  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie,  smiling,  but  not  looking  up ;  "  so  much 
fluency  and  self-possession  should  not  be  wasted  entirely  on 
private  occasions." 

"  Ah,  I  cee  how  much  penetration  you  have,"  said  Stephen. 


350  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  You  have  discovered  already  that  I  am  talkative  and  impu- 
dent. Now  superficial  people  never  discern  that,  owing  to 
my  manner,  I  suppose." 

"  She  does  n't  look  at  me  when  I  talk  of  myself,"  he 
thought,  while  his  listeners  were  laughing.  "  I  must  try 
other  subjects." 

Did  Lucy  intend  to  be  present  at  the  meeting  of  the  Book 
Club  next  week  ?  was  the  next  question.  Then  followed 
recommendation  to  choose  Southey's  "  Life  of  Cowper,"  mil.  ; 
she  were  inclined  to  be  philosophical,  and  startle  the  ladies  oi 
St.  Ogg's  by  voting  for  one  of  the  Bridgewater  Treatises.  Ol 
course  Lucy  wished  to  know  what  these  alarmingly  learned 
books  were  ;  and  as  it  is  always  pleasant  to  improve  the  minds 
of  ladies  by  talking  to  them  at  ease  on  subjects  of  which  they 
know  nothing,  Stephen  became  quite  brilliant  in  an  account  of 
Buckland's  Treatise,  which  he  had  just  been  reading.  He  was 
rewarded  by  seeing  Maggie  let  her  work  fall,  and  gradually 
get  so  absorbed  in  his  wonderful  geological  story  that  she  sat 
looking  at  him,  leaning  forward  with  crossed  arms,  and  with 
an  entire  absence  of  self-consciousness,  as  if  he  had  been  the 
snuinest  of  old  professors,  and  she  a  downy-lipped  alumnus. 
He  was  so  fascinated  by  this  clear,  large  gaze,  that  at  last  he 
forgot  to  look  away  from  it  occasionally  towards  Lucy ;  but 
she,  sweet  child,  was  only  rejoicing  that  Stephen  was  proving 
to  Maggie  how  clever  he  was,  and  that  they  would  certainly 
be  good  friends  after  all. 

"  I  will  bring  you  the  book,  shall  I,  Miss  Tulliver  ?  "  said 
Stephen,  when  he  found  the  stream  of  his  recollections  running 
rather  shallow.  "  There  are  many  illustrations  in  it  that  you 
will  like  to  see." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Maggie,  blushing  with  returning  self- 
consciousness  at  this  direct  address,  and  taking  up  her  work 
again. 

"  No,  no,"  Lucy  interposed.  "  I  must  forbid  your  plunging 
Maggie  in  books.  I  shall  never  get  her  away  from  them ;  and 
I  want  her  to  have  delicious  do-nothing  days,  filled  with  boat- 
ing and  chatting  and  riding  and  driving ;  that  is  the  holiday 
she  needs." 

"  Apropos  ! "  said  Stephen,  looking  at  his  watch.  "  Shall 
we  go  out  for  a  row  on  the  river  now  ?  The  tide  will  suit  for 
us  to  go  the  Tofton  way,  and  we  can  walk  back." 

That  was  a  delightful  proposition  to  Maggie,  for  it  was 
years  since  she  had  been  on  the  river.  When  she  was  gone 
to  put  on  her  bonnet,  Lucy  lingered  to  give  an  order  to  the  ser- 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  351 

rant,  and  took  the  opportunity  of  telling  Stephen  that  Maggie 
had  no  objection  to  seeing  Philip,  so  that  it  was  a  pity  she  had 
sent  that  note  the  day  before  yesterday.  But  she  would  write 
another  to-morrow  and  invite  him. 

"  I  '11  call  and  beat  him  up  to-morrow,"  said  Stephen,  "  and 
bring  him  with  me  in  the  evening,  shall  I  ?  My  sisters  will 
want  to  call  on  you  when  I  tell  them  your  cousin  is  with  you. 
I  must  leave  the  field  clear  for  them  in  the  morning." 

"  Oh  yes,  pray  bring  him,"  said  Lucy.  "  And  you  will  like 
Maggie,  sha'n't  you  ?  "  she  added,  in  a  beseeching  tone.  "  Is  n't 
she  a  dear,  noble-looking  creature  ?  " 

"Too  tall,"  said  Stephen,  smiling  down  upon  her,  "and  a 
little  too  fiery.  She  is  not  my  type  of  woman,  you  know." 

Gentlemen,  you  are  aware,  are  apt  to  impart  these  imprudent 
confidences  to  ladies  concerning  their  unfavourable  opinion  of 
sister  fair  ones.  That  is  why  so  many  women  have  the  advan- 
tage of  knowing  that  they  are  secretly  repulsive  to  men  who 
have  self-denyingly  made  ardent  love  to  them.  And  hardly 
anything  could  be  more  distinctively  characteristic  of  Lucy, 
than  that  she  both  implicitly  believed  what  Stephen  said,  and 
was  determined  that  Maggie  should  not  know  it.  But  you, 
who  have  a  higher  logic  than  the  verbal  to  guide  you,  have 
already  foreseen,  as  the  direct  sequence  to  that  unfavourable 
opinion  of  Stephen's,  that  he  walked  down  to  the  boat-house  cal- 
culating, by  the  aid  of  a  vivid  imagination,  that  Maggie  must 
give  him  her  hand  at  least  twice  in  consequence  of  this  pleas- 
ant boating  plan,  and  that  a  gentleman  who  wishes  ladies  to 
look  at  him  is  advantageously  situated  when  he  is  rowing 
them  in  a  boat.  What  then  ?  Had  he  fallen  in  love  with 
this  surprising  daughter  of  Mrs.  Tulliver  at  first  sight  ? 
Certainly  not.  Such  passions  are  never  heard  of  in  real  life. 
Besides,  he  was  in  love  already,  and  half-engaged  to  the 
clearest  little  creature  in  the  world ;  and  he  was  not  a  man 
to  make  a  fool  of  himself  in  any  way.  But  when  one  is  five- 
and-twenty,  one  has  not  chalk-stones  at  one's  finger-ends  that 
the  touch  of  a  handsome  girl  should  be  entirely  indifferent. 
It  was  perfectly  natural  and  safe  to  adm.ire  beauty  and  enjoy 
looking  at  it,  —  at  least  under  such  circumstances  as  the 
present.  And  there  was  really  something  very  interesting 
about  this  girl,  with  her  poverty  and  troubles ;  it  was  grati- 
fying to  see  the  friendship  between  the  two  cousins.  Gener- 
ally, Stephen  admitted,  he  was  not  fond  of  women  who  had 
any  peculiarity  of  character,  but  here  the  peculiarity  seemed 
really  of  a  superior  kind ;  arid  provided  one  is  not  obliged  to 


352  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

marry  such  women,  why,  they  certainly  make  a  variety  in 
social  intercourse. 

Maggie  did  not  fulfil  Stephen's  hope  by  looking  at  him 
during  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour ;  her  eyes  were  too  full  of 
the  old  banks  that  she  knew  so  well.  She  felt  lonely,  cut  off 
from  Philip,  —  the  only  person  who  had  ever  seemed  to  love 
her  devotedly,  as  she  had  always  longed  to  be  loved.  But 
presently  the  rhythmic  movement  of  the  oars  attracted  her, 
and  she  thought  she  should  like  to  learn  how  to  row.  This 
roused  her  from  her  reverie,  and  she  asked  if  she  might  take 
an  oar.  It  appeared  that  she  required  much  teaching,  and  she 
became  ambitious.  The  exercise  brought  the  warm  blood  into 
her  cheeks,  and  made  her  inclined  to  take  her  lesson  merrily. 

"  I  shall  not  be  satisfied  until  I  can  manage  both  oars, 
and  row  you  and  Lucy,"  she  said,  looking  very  bright  as 
she  stepped  out  of  the  boat.  Maggie,  we  know,  was  apt 
to  forget  the  thing  she  was  doing,  and  she  had  chosen  an 
inopportune  moment  for  her  remark  ;  her  foot  slipped,  but 
happily  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  held  her  hand,  and  kept  her 
up  with  a  firm  grasp. 

"  You  have  not  hurt  yourself  at  all,  I  hope  ?  "  he  said, 
bending  to  look  in  her  face  with  anxiety.  It  was  very 
charming  to  be  taken  care  of  in  that  kind,  graceful  manner 
by  some  one  taller  and  stronger  than  one's  self.  Maggie 
had  never  felt  just  in  the  same  way  before. 

When  they  reached  home  again,  they  found  uncle  and 
aiint  Pullet  seated  with  Mrs.  Tulliver  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  Stephen  hurried  away,  asking  leave  to  come  again  in 
the  evening. 

"  And  pray  bring  with  you  the  volume  of  Purcell  that  you 
took  away,"  said  Lucy.  "I  want  Maggie  to  hear  your  best 
songs." 

Aunt  Pullet,  under  the  certainty  that  Maggie  would  be 
invited  to  go  out  with  Lucy,  probably  to  Park  House,  was 
much  shocked  at  the  shabbiness  of  her  clothes,  which,  when 
witnessed  by  the  higher  society  of  St.  Ogg's,  would  be  a 
discredit  to  the  family,  that  demanded  a  strong  and  prompt 
remedy;  and  the  consultation  as  to  what  would  be  most 
suitable  to  this  end  from  among  the  superfluities  of  Mrs. 
Pullet's  wardrobe  was  one  that  Lucy  as  well  as  Mrs.  Tulliver 
entered  into  with  some  zeal.  Maggie  must  really  have  an 
evening  dress  as  soon  as  possible,  and  she  was  about  the 
same  height  as  aunt  Pullet. 

"  But  she  's  so  much  broader  across  the  shoulders  than  I  am, 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  353 

It 's  very  ill-convenient,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "  else  she  might 
wear  that  beautiful  black  brocade  o'  mine  without  any  altera- 
tion ;  and  her  arms  are  beyond  everything,"  added  Mrs.  Pullet, 
sorrowfully,  as  she  lifted  Maggie's  large  round  arm.  "  She  'd 
never  get  my  sleeves  on." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that,  aunt ;  pray  send  us  the  dress,"  said 
Lucy.  "  I  don't  mean  Maggie  to  have  long  sleeves,  and  I 
have  abundance  of  black  lace  for  trimming.  Her  arms  will 
look  beautiful." 

"Maggie's  arms  are  a  pretty  shape,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver. 
"  They  're  like  mine  used  to  be,  only  mine  was  never  brown ; 
I  wish  she'd  had  our  family  skin." 

"  Nonsense,  aunty ! "  said  Lucy,  patting  her  aunt  Tulliver's 
shoulder,  "you  don't  understand  those  things.  A  painter 
would  think  Maggie's  complexion  beautiful." 

"  May  be,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  submissively,  "  You 
know  better  than  I  do.  Only  when  I  was  young  a  brown  skin 
was  n't  thought  well  on  among  respectable  folks." 

'*No,"  said  uncle  Pullet,  who  took  intense  interest  in 
the  ladies'  conversation  as  he  sucked  his  lozenges.  "  Though 
there  was  a  song  about  the  '  Nut-brown  Maid '  too  ;  I  think  she 
was  crazy,  —  crazy  Kate,  —  but  I  can't  justly  remember." 

"  Oh  dear,  dear ! "  said  Maggie,  laughing,  but  impatient ; 
"  I  think  that  will  be  the  end  of  my  brown  skin,  if  it  is  always 
to  be  talked  about  so  much." 


CHAPTER  III. 

CONFIDENTIAL    MOMENTS. 

WHEN  Maggie  went  up  to  her  bedroom  that  night,  it 
appeared  that  she  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  undress.  She 
set  down  her  candle  on  the  first  table  that  presented  itself, 
and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  her  re/om,  which  was  a  large 
one,  with  a  firm,  regular,  and  rather  rapid  step,  which  showed 
that  the  exercise  was  the  instinctive  vent  of  strong  excite- 
ment. Her  eyes  and  cheeks  had  an  almost  feverish  bril- 
liancy; her  head  was  thrown  backward,  and  her  hands  were 
clasped  with  the  palms  outward,  and  with  that  tension  of  the 
arms  which  is  apt  to  accompany  mental  absorption. 

Had  anything  remarkable  happened  ? 

23 


354  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Nothing  that  you  are  not  likely  to  consider  in  the  highest 
degree  unimportant.  She  had  been  hearing  some  fine  music 
sung  by  a  fine  bass  voice,  —  but  then  it  was  sung  in  a  pro- 
vincial, amateur  fashion,  such  as  would  have  left  a  critical  ear 
much  to  desire.  And  she  was  conscious  of  having  been  looked 
at  a  great  deal,  in  rather  a  furtive  manner,  from  beneath  a 
pair  of  well-marked  horizontal  eyebrows,  with  a  glance  that 
seemed  somehow  to  have  caught  the  vibratory  influence  of  the 
voice.  Such  things  could  have  had  no  perceptible  effect  on  a 
thoroughly  well-educated  young  lady,  with  a  perfectly  bal- 
anced mind,  who  had  had  all  the  advantages  of  fortune, 
training,  and  refined  society.  But  if  Maggie  had  been  that 
young  lady,  you  would  probably  have  known  nothing  about 
her  :  her  life  would  have  had  so  few  vicissitudes  that  it  could 
hardly  have  been  written;  for  the  happiest  women,  like  the 
happiest  nations,  have  no  history. 

In  poor  Maggie's  highly-strung,  hungry  nature, — just  come 
away  from  a  third-rate  schoolroom,  with  all  its  jarring  sounds 
and  petty  round  of  tasks,  —  these  apparently  trivial  ca» 
had  the  effect  of  rousing  and  exalting  her  imagination  in  a 
way  that  was  mysterious  to  herself.  It  was  not  that  she 
thought  distinctly  of  Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  or  dwelt  on  the 
indications  that  he  looked  at  her  with  admiration;  it  was 
rather  that  she  felt  the  half-remote  presence  of  a  world 
of  love  and  beauty  and  delight,  made  up  of  vague,  mingled 
images  from  all  the  poetry  and  romance  she  had  ever  read,  or 
had  ever  woven  in  her  dreamy  reveries.  Her  mind  glanced 
back  once  or  twice  to  the  time  when  she  had  courted  pri- 
vation, when  she  had  thought  all  longing,  all  impatience 
was  subdued;  but  that  condition  seemed  irrecoverably  gone, 
and  she  recoiled  from  the  remembrance  of  it.  No  prayer,  no 
striving  now,  would  bring  back  that  negative  peace;  the  battle 
of  her  life,  it  seemed,  was  not  to  be  decided  in  that  short  and 
easy  way,  —  by  perfect  renunciation  at  the  very  threshold  of 
her  youth.  The  music  was  vibrating  in  her  still,  —  Purcell's 
music,  with  its  wild  passion  and  fancy, — and  she  could  not 
stay  in  the  recollection  of  that  bare,  lonely  past.  She  was  in 
her  brighter  aerial  world  again,  when  a  little  tap  came  at  the 
door ;  of  course  it  was  her  cousin,  who  entered  in  ample  white 
dressing-gown. 

"  Why,  Maggie,  you  naughty  child,  have  n't  you  begun  to 
undress  ?  "  said  Lucy,  in  astonishment.  "  I  promised  not  to 
come  and  talk  to  you,  because  I  thought  you  must  be  tired. 
But  here  you  are,  looking  as  if  you  were  ready  to  dress  for  a 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  355 

ball.  Come,  come,  get  on  your  dressing-gown  and  unplait 
your  hair." 

"  Well,  you  are  not  very  forward,"  retorted  Maggie,  hastily 
reaching  her  own  pink  cotton  gown,  and  looking  at  Lucy's 
light-brown  hair  brushed  back  in  curly  disorder. 

"  Oh,  I  have  not  much  to  do.  I  shall  sit  down  and  talk  to 
you  till  I  see  you  are  really  on  the  way  to  bed." 

While  Maggie  stood  and  unplaited  her  long  black  hair  over 
her  pink  drapery,  Lucy  sat  down  near  the  toilette-table, 
watching  her  with  affectionate  eyes,  and  head  a  little  aside, 
like  a  pretty  spaniel.  If  it  appears  to  you  at  all  incredible 
that  young  ladies  should  be  led  on  to  talk  confidentially  in  a 
situation  of  this  kind,  I  will  beg  you  to  remember  that  human 
life  furnishes  many  exceptional  cases. 

"  You  really  have  enjoyed  the  music  to-night,  have  n't  you, 
Maggie  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  that  is  what  prevents  me  from  feeling  sleepy.  I 
think  I  should  have  no  other  mortal  wants,  if  I  could  always 
have  plenty  of  music.  It  seems  to  infuse  strength  into  my 
limbs,  and  ideas  into  my  brain.  Life  seems  to  go  on  without 
effort,  when  I  am  filled  with  music.  At  other  times  one  is 
conscious  of  carrying  a  weight." 

"  And  Stephen  has  a  splendid  voice,  has  n't  he  ?  " 

"Well,  perhaps  we  are  neither  of  us  judges  of  that,"  said 
Maggie,  laughing,  as  she  seated  herself  and  tossed  her  long 
hair  back.  "  You  are  not  impartial,  and  /  think  any  barrel- 
organ  splendid." 

"  But  tell  me  what  you  think  of  him,  now.  Tell  me  exactly ; 
good  and  bad  too." 

"  Oh,  I  think  you  should  humiliate  him  a  little.  A  lover 
should  not  be  so  much  at  ease,  and  so  self-confident.  He 
ought  to  tremble  more." 

"  Nonsense,  Maggie  !  As  if  any  one  could  tremble  at  me  ! 
You  think  he  is  conceited,  I  see  that.  But  you  don't  dislike 
him,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Dislike  him  !  No.  Am  I  in  the  habit  of  seeing  such 
charming  people,  that  I  should  be  very  difficult  to  please  ? 
Besides,  how  could  I  dislike  any  one  that  promised  to  make 
you  happy,  you  dear  thing  !  "  Maggie  pinched  Lucy's  dimpled 
chin. 

"  We  shall  have  more  music  to-morrow  evening,"  said  Lucy, 
looking  happy  already,  "  for  Stephen  will  bring  Philip  Wakeni 
with  him." 

"  Oh,  Lucy,  I  can't  see  him,"  said  Maggie,  turning  pale. 
"  At  least,  I  could  not  see  him  without  Tom's  leave." 


356  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"  Is  Tom  such  a  tyrant  as  that  ? "  said  Lucy,  surprised. 
"  I  '11  take  the  responsibility,  then,  —  tell  him  it  was  my 
fault." 

"  But,  dear,"  said  Maggie,  f alteringly,  "  I  promised  Tom 
very  solemnly,  before  my  father's  death,  —  I  promised  him  I 
would  not  speak  to  Philip  without  his  knowledge  and  consent, 
And  I  have  a  great  dread  of  opening  the  subject  with  Tom, — 
of  getting  into  a  quarrel  with  him  again." 

"  But  I  never  heard  of  anything  so  strange  and  unreason- 
able. What  harm  can  poor  Philip  have  done  ?  May  I  speak 
to  Tom  about  it  V  " 

"  Oh  no,  pray  don't,  dear,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  '11  go  to  him 
myself  to-morrow,  and  tell  him  that  you  wish  Philip  to  come. 
I  've  thought  before  of  asking  him  to  absolve  me  from  my 
promise,  but  I  've  not  had  the  courage  to  determine  on  it." 

They  were  both  silent  for  some  moments,  and  then  Lucy 
said,  — 

"  Maggie,  you  have  secrets  from  me,  and  I  have  none  from 
you." 

Maggie  looked  meditatively  away  from  Lucy.  Then  she 
turned  to  her  and  said,  "  I  should  like  to  tell  you  about  Philip. 
But,  Lucy,  you  must  not  betray  that  you  know  it  to  any  one, 
—  least  of  all  to  Philip  himself,  or  to  Mr.  Stephen  Guest." 

The  narrative  lasted  long,  for  Maggie  had  never  before 
known  the  relief  of  such  an  outpouring  ;  she  had  never  before 
told  Lucy  anything  of  her  inmost  life  ;  and  the  sweet  face 
bent  towards  her  with  sympathetic  interest,  and  the  little 
hand  pressing  hers,  encouraged  her  to  speak  on.  On  two 
points  only  she  was  not  expansive.  She  did  not  betray  fully 
what  still  rankled  in  her  mind  as  Tom's  great  offence,  —  the 
insults  he  had  heaped  on  Philip.  Angry  as  the  remembrance 
still  made  her,  she  could  not  bear  that  any  one  else  should 
know  it  at  all,  both  for  Tom's  sake  and  Philip's.  And  she 
could  not  bear  to  tell  Lucy  of  the  last  scene  between  her 
father  and  Wakem,  though  it  was  this  scene  which  she  had 
ever  since  felt  to  be  a  new  barrier  between  herself  and  Philip. 
She  merely  said,  she  saw  now  that  Tom  was,  on  the  whole, 
right  in  regarding  any  prospect  of  love  and  marriage  between 
her  and  Philip  as  put  out  of  the  question  by  the  relation  of 
the  two  families.  Of  course  Philip's  father  would  never 
consent. 

"There,  Lucy,  you  have  had  my  story,"  said  Maggie,  smiling, 
with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  You  see  I  am  like  Sir  Andrew 
Aguecheek.  /  was  adored  once." 

"  Ah,  now  I  see  how  it  is  you  know  Shakespeare  and  every- 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  357 

thing,  and  have  learned  so  much  since  you  left  school ;  which 
always  seemed  to  me  witchcraft  before,  —  part  of  your  general 
uneanniness,"  said  Lucy. 

She  mused  a  little  with  her  eyes  downward,  and  then  added, 
looking  at  Maggie,  "  It  is  very  beautiful  that  you  should  love 
Philip ;  I  never  thought  such  a  happiness  would  befall  him. 
And  in  my  opinion,  you  ought  not  to  give  him  up.  There  are 
obstacles  now ;  but  they  may  be  done  away  with  in  time." 

Maggie  shook  her  head. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  persisted  Lucy ;  "  I  can't  help  being  hopeful 
about  it.  There  is  something  romantic  in  it,  —  out  of  the 
common  way,  —  just  what  everything  that  happens  to  you 
ought  to  be.  And  Philip  will  adore  you  like  a  husband  in 
a  fairy  tale.  Oh,  I  shall  puzzle  my  small  brain  to  contrive 
some  plot  that  will  bring  everybody  into  the  right  mind,  so 
that  you  may  marry  Philip  when  I  marry  —  somebody  else. 
Wouldn't  that  be  a  pretty  ending  to  all  my  poor,  poor 
Maggie's  troubles  ?  " 

Maggie  tried  to  smile,  but  shivered,  as  if  she  felt  a  sudden 
chill. 

"  Ah,  dear,  you  are  cold,"  said  Lucy.  "  You  must  go  to 
bed ;  and  so  must  I.  I  dare  not  think  what  time  it  is." 

They  kissed  each  other,  and  Lucy  went  away,  possessed 
of  a  confidence  which  had  a  strong  influence  over  her  subse- 
quent impressions.  Maggie  had  been  thoroughly  sincere ; 
her  nature  had  never  found  it  easy  to  be  otherwise.  But  con- 
fidences are  sometimes  blinding,  even  when  they  are  sincere. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

BROTHER   AND    SISTER. 

MAGGIE  was  obliged  to  go  to  Tom's  lodgings  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  day,  when  he  would  be  coming  in  to  dinner,  else 
she  would  not  have  found  him  at  home.  He  was  not  lodg- 
ing with  entire  strangers.  Our  friend  Bob  Jakin  had,  with 
Mumps's  tacit  consent,  taken  not  only  a  wife  about  eight 
months  ago,  but  also  one  of  those  queer  old  houses,  pierced 
with  surprising  passages,  by  the  water-side,  where,  as  he 
observed,  his  wii'e  and  mother  could  keep  themselves  out  of 


858  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

mischief  by  letting  out  two  "  pleasure-boats,"  in  which  h« 
had  invested  some  of  his  savings,  and  by  taking  in  a  lodger 
for  the  parlour  and  spare  bedroom.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, what  could  be  better  for  the  interests  of  all  parties, 
sanitary  considerations  apart,  than  that  the  lodger  should  be 
Mr.  Tom  ? 

It  was  Bob's  wife  who  opened  the  door  to  Maggie.  She 
was  a  tiny  woman,  with  the  general  physiognomy  of  a  Dutch 
doll,  looking,  in  comparison  with  Bob's  mother,  who  filled  up 
the  passage  in  the  rear,  very  much  like  one  of  those  human 
figures  which  the  artist  finds  conveniently  standing  near  a 
colossal  statue  to  show  the  proportions.  The  tiny  woman 
curtsied  and  looked  up  at  Maggie  with  some  awe  as  soon  as 
she  had  opened  the  door ;  but  the  words,  "  Is  my  brother  at 
home  ? "  which  Maggie  uttered  smilingly,  made  her  turn 
round  with  sudden  excitement,  and  say, — 

"  Eh,  mother,  mother  —  tell  Bob !  —  it 's  Miss  Maggie  ! 
Come  in,  Miss,  for  goodness  do,"  she  went  on,  opening  a  side 
door,  and  endeavouring  to  flatten  her  person  against  the  wall 
to  make  the  utmost  space  for  the  visitor. 

Sad  recollections  crowded  on  Maggie  as  she  entered  the 
small  parlour,  which  was  now  all  that  poor  Tom  had  to  call 
by  the  name  of  "  home,"  —  that  name  which  had  once,  so 
many  years  ago,  meant  for  both  of  them  the  same  sum  of 
dear  familiar  objects.  But  everything  was  not  strange  to  her 
in  this  new  room ;  the  first  thing  her  eyes  dwelt  on  was  the 
large  old  Bible,  and  the  sight  was  not  likely  to  disperse  the 
old  memories.  She  stood  without  speaking. 

"  If  you  please  to  take  the  privilege  o'  sitting  down,  Miss," 
said  Mrs.  Jakin,  rubbing  her  apron  over  a  perfectly  clean 
chair,  and  then  lifting  up  the  corner  of  that  garment  and 
holding  it  to  her  face  with  an  air  of  embarrassment,  as  she 
looked  wonderingly  at  Maggie. 

"  Bob  is  at  home,  then  ?  "  said  Maggie,  recovering  herself, 
and  smiling  at  the  bashful  Dutch  doll. 

"  Yes,  Miss ;  but  I  think  he  must  be  washing  and  dressing 
himself;  I  '11  go  and  see,"  said  Mrs.  Jakin,  disappearing. 

But  she  presently  came  back  walking  with  new  courage  a 
little  way  behind  her  husband,  who  showed  the  brilliancy  of 
his  blue  eyes  and  regular  white  teeth  in  the  doorway,  bowing 
respectfully. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Bob  ?  "  said  Maggie,  coming  forward  and 
putting  out  her  hand  to  him;  "I  always  meant  to  pay  your 
wife  a  visit,  and  I  shall  come  another  day  on  purpose  for 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  359 

that,  if  she  will  let  me      But  I  was  obliged  to  come  to-day  to 
speak  to  my  brother." 

"He'll  be  in  before  long,  Miss.  He's  doin'  finely,  Mr. 
Tom  is ;  he  '11  be  one  o'  the  first  men  hereabouts,  —  you  '11 
see  that." 

"  Well,  Bob,  I  'm  sure  he  '11  be  indebted  to  you,  whatever  he 
becomes ;  he  said  so  himself  only  the  other  night,  when  he 
was  talking  of  you." 

"Eh,  Miss,  that's  his  way  o'  takin'  it.  But  I  think  th< 
more  on't  when  he  says  a  thing,  because  his  tongue  doesn't 
overshoot  him  as  mine  does.  Lors  !  I  'm  no  better  nor  a 
tilted  bottle,  I  arn't,  —  I  can't  stop  mysen  when  once  I  begin. 
But  you  look  rarely,  Miss ;  it  does  me  good  to  see  you. 
What  do  you  say  now,  Prissy  ?  "  —  here  Bob  turned  to  his 
wife,  —  "  Is  n't  it  all  come  true  as  I  said  ?  Though  there  is  n't 
many  sorts  o'  goods  as  I  can't  over-praise  when  I  set  my 
tongue  to  't." 

Mrs.  Bob's  small  nose  seemed  to  be  following  the  example 
of  her  eyes  in  turning  up  reverentially  towards  Maggie,  but 
she  was  able  now  to  smile  and  curtsy,  and  say,  "  I  'd  looked 
forrard  like  aenything  to  seein'  you,  Miss,  for  my  husband's 
tongue  's  been  runnin'  on  you,  like  as  if  he  was  light-headed, 
iver  since  first  he  come  a-courtin'  on  me." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Bob,  looking  rather  silly.  "  Go  an'  see 
after  the  taters,  else  Mr.  Tom  'ull  have  to  wait  for  'em." 

"  I  hope  Mumps  is  friendly  with  Mrs.  Jakin,  Bob,"  said 
Maggie,  smiling.  "  I  remember  you  used  to  say  he  would  n't 
like  your  marrying." 

"Eh,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  grinning,  "he  made  up  his  mind  to't 
when  he  see'd  what  a  little  un  she  was.  He  pretends  not  to 
see  her  mostly,  or  else  to  think  as  she  is  n't  full-growed.  But 
about  Mr.  Tom,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  speaking  lower  and  looking 
serious,  "  he 's  as  close  as  a  iron  biler,  he  is ;  but  I  'm  a 
'cutish  chap,  an'  when  I  've  left  off  carrying  my  pack,  an'  am 
at  a  loose  end,  I  've  got  more  brains  nor  I  know  what  to  do 
wi',  an'  I  'm  forced  to  busy  myself  wi'  other  folks's  insides 
An'  it  worrets  me  as  Mr.  Tom  '11  sit  by  himself  so  glump- 
ish,  a-knittin'  his  brow,  an'  a-lookin'  at  the  fire  of  a  night. 
He  should  be  a  bit  livelier  now,  a  fine  young  fellow  like 
him.  My  wife  says,  when  she  goes  in  some  times,  an'  he 
takes  no  notice  of  her,  he  sits  lockin'  into  the  fire,  and 
frownin'  as  if  he  was  watchin'  folks  at  work  in  it." 

"  He  thinks  so  much  about  business,"  said  Maggie. 

"  Ay,"  said  Bob,  speaking  lower ;  "  but  do  you  think  it 's 


360  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

nothin'  else,  Miss  ?  He  's  close,  Mr.  Tom  is ;  but  I  'm  a  'cute 
chap,  I  am,  an'  I  thought  tow'rt  last  Christmas  as  I  'd  found 
out  a  soft  place  in  him.  It  was  about  a  little  black  spaniel  — 
a  rare  bit  o'  breed  —  as  he  made  a  fuss  to  get.  But  since  then 
summat's  come  over  him,  as  he's  set  his  teeth  again'  things 
more  nor  iver,  for  all  he 's  had  such  good-luck.  Au'  I  wanted 
to  tell  you,  Miss,  'cause  I  thought  you  might  work  it  out  of 
him  a  bit,  now  you  're  come.  He 's  a  deal  too  lonely,  and 
•loes  n't  go  into  company  enough." 

u  I  'm  afraid  I  have  very  little  power  over  him,  Bob,"  said 
Maggie,  a  good  deal  moved  by  Bob's  suggestion.  It  was  a 
totally  new  idea  to  her  mind,  that  Tom  could  have  his  love 
troubles.  Poor  fellow !  —  and  in  love  with  Lucy  too !  But 
it  was  perhaps  a  mere  fancy  of  Bob's  too  officious  brain.  The 
present  of  the  dog  meant  nothing  more  than  cousinship  and 
gratitude.  But  Bob  had  already  said,  "  Here 's  Mr.  Tom," 
and  the  outer  door  was  opening. 

"  There  's  no  time  to  spare,  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  as  soon 
as  Bob  had  left  the  room.  "  I  must  tell  you  at  once  what  I 
came  about,  else  I  shall  be  hindering  you  from  taking  your 
dinner." 

Tom  stood  with  his  back  against  the  chimney-piece,  and 
Maggie  was  seated  opposite  the  light.  He  noticed  that  she 
was  tremulous,  and  he  had  a  presentiment  of  the  subject  she 
was  going  to  speak  about.  The  presentiment  made  his  voice 
colder  and  harder  as  he  said,  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

This  tone  roused  a  spirit  of  resistance  in  Maggie,  and  she 
put  her  request  in  quite  a  different  form  from  the  one  she  had 
predetermined  on.  She  rose  from  her  seat,  and  looking  straight 
at  Tom,  said,  — 

"  I  want  you  to  absolve  me  from  my  promise  about  Philip 
Wakem.  Or  rather,  I  promised  you  not  to  see  him  without 
telling  you.  T  am  come  to  tell  you  that  I  wish  to  see  him." 

11  Very  well,"  said  Tom,  still  more  coldly. 

But  Maggie  had  hardly  finished  speaking  in  that  chill,  de- 
:i;nit  manner,  before  she  repented,  and  felt  the  dread  of  aliena- 
.ion  from  her  brother. 

"  Not  for  myself,  dear  Tom.  Don't  be  angry.  I  should  n't 
have  asked  it,  only  that  Philip,  you  know,  is  a  friend  of  Lucy's, 
and  she  wishes  him  to  come,  has  invited  him  to  come  this 
evening;  and  I  told  her  I  couldn't  see  him  without  telling 
you.  I  shall  only  see  him  in  the  presence  of  other  people. 
There  will  never  be  anything  secret  between  us  again." 

Tom   looked   away   from  Maggie,    knitting  his  brow  more 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  361 

strongly  for  a  little  while.  Then  he  turned  to  her  and 
said,  slowly  and  emphatically, — 

"You  know  what  is  my  feeling  on  that  subject,  Maggie. 
There  is  no  need  for  my  repeating  anything  I  said  a  year  ago. 
While  my  father  was  living,  I  felt  bound  to  use  the  utmost 
power  over  you,  to  prevent  you  from  disgracing  him  as  well 
as  yourself,  and  all  of  us.  But  now  I  must  leave  you  to  your 
own  choice.  You  wish  to  be  independent;  you  told  me  so 
after  my  father's  death.  My  opinion  is  not  changed.  If  you 
think  of  Philip  Wakem  as  a  lover  again,  you  must  give  up 
me." 

"  I  don't  wish  it,  dear  Tom,  at  least  as  things  are ;  I  see 
that  it  would  lead  to  misery.  But  I  shall  soon  go  away  to  an- 
other situation,  and  I  should  like  to  be  friends  with  him  again 
while  I  am  here.  Lucy  wishes  it." 

The  severity  of  Tom's  face  relaxed  a  little. 

"I  shouldn't  mind  your  seeing  him  occasionally  at  my 
uncle's  —  I  don't  want  you  to  make  a  fuss  on  the  subject. 
But  I  have  no  confidence  in  you,  Maggie.  You  would  be 
led  away  to  do  anything." 

That  was  a  cruel  word.     Maggie's  lip  began  to  tremble. 

"Why  will  you  say  that,  Tom?  It  is  very  hard  of  you. 
Have  I  not  done  and  borne  everything  as  well  as  I  could? 
And  I  have  kept  my  word  to  you  —  when  —  when  —  My  life 
has  not  been  a  happy  one,  any  more  than  yours." 

She  was  obliged  to  be  childish ;  the  tears  would  come. 
When  Maggie  was  not  angry,  she  was  as  dependent  on  kind 
or  cold  words  as  a  daisy  on  the  sunshine  or  the  cloud ;  the 
need  of  being  loved  would  always  subdue  her,  as,  in  old 
days,  it  subdued  her  in  the  worm-eaten  attic.  The  brother's 
goodness  came  uppermost  at  this  appeal,  but  it  could  only  show 
itself  in  Tom's  fashion.  He  put  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm, 
and  said,  in  the  tone  of  a  kind  pedagogue,  — 

"]S~ow  listen  to  me,  Maggie.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean. 
You  're  always  in  extremes ;  you  have  no  judgment  and  self- 
command  ;  and  yet  you  think  you  know  best,  and  will  not  sub- 
mit to  be  guided.  You  know  I  didn't  wish  you  to  take  a 
situation.  My  aunt  Pullet  was  willing  to  give  you  a  good 
home,  and  you  might  have  lived  respectably  amongst  your  re- 
lations, until  I  could  have  provided  a  home  for  you  with  my 
mother.  And  that  is  what  I  should  like  to  do.  I  wished  my 
sister  to  be  a  lady,  and  I  would  always  have  taken  care  of  you, 
as  my  father  desired,  until  you  were  well  married.  But  your 
ideas  and  mine  never  accord,  and  you  will  not  give  way.  Yet 


362  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLGSS. 

you  might  have  sense  enough  to  see  that  a  brother,  who  goes 
out  into  the  world  and  mixes  with  men,  necessarily  knows 
better  what  is  right  and  respectable  for  his  sister  than  she  can 
know  herself.  You  think  I  am  not  kind ;  but  my  kindness 
can  only  be  directed  by  what  I  believe  to  be  good  for  you." 

"Yes,  I  know,  dear  Tom,"  said  Maggie,  still  half-sob- 
bing, but  trying  to  control  her  tears.  "  I  know  you  would  do 
a  great  deal  for  me;  I  know  how  you  work,  and  don't  spun- 
yourself.  I  am  grateful  to  you.  But,  indeed,  you  can't  quite 
judge  for  me ;  our  natures  are  very  different.  You  don't  know 
how  differently  things  affect  me  from  what  they  do  you." 

"  Yes,  I  do  know ;  I  know  it  too  well.  I  know  how  differ- 
ently you  must  feel  about  all  that  affects  our  family,  and  your 
own  dignity  as  a  young  woman,  before  you  could  think  of  re- 
ceiving secret  addresses  from  Philip  Wakem.  If  it  was  not 
disgusting  to  me  in  every  other  way,  I  should  object  to  my 
sister's  name  being  associated  for  a  moment  with  that  of  a 
young  man  whose  father  must  hate  the  very  thought  of  us  all, 
and  would  spurn  you.  With  any  one  but  you,  I  should  think 
it  quite  certain  that  what  you  witnessed  just  before  my  father's 
death  would  secure  you  from  ever  thinking  again  of  Philip 
Wakem  as  a  lover.  But  I  don't  feel  certain  of  it  with  you ;  I 
never  feel  certain  about  anything  with  you.  At  one  time  you 
take  pleasure  in  a  sort  of  perverse  self-denial,  and  at  another 
you  have  not  resolution  to  resist  a  thing  that  you  know  to  be 
wrong." 

There  was  a  terrible  cutting  truth  in  Tom's  words,  —  that 
hard  rind  of  truth  which  is  discerned  by  unimaginative,  un- 
sympathetic minds.  Maggie  always  writhed  under  this  judg- 
ment of  Tom's ;  she  rebelled  and  was  humiliated  in  the  same 
moment ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  held  a  glass  before  her  to  show 
her  her  own  folly  and  weakness,  as  if  he  were  a  prophetic 
voice  predicting  her  future  fallings ;  and  yet,  all  the  while, 
she  judged  him  in  return ;  she  said  inwardly  that  he  was  nar- 
row and  unjust,  that  he  was  below  feeling  those  mental  needs 
which  were  often  the  source  of  the  wrong-doing  or  absurdity 
that  made  her  life  a  planless  riddle  to  him. 

She  did  not  answer  directly ;  her  heart  was  too  full,  and  she 
sat  down,  leaning  her  arm  on  the  table.  It  was  no  use  trying 
to  make  Tom  feel  that  she  was  near  to  him.  He  always  re- 
pelled her.  Her  feeling  under  his  words  was  complicated  by 
the  allusion  to  the  last  scene  between  her  father  and  Wakem ; 
and  at  length  that  painful,  solemn  memory  surmounted  the 
immediate  grievance.  No !  She  did  not  think  of  such  things 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  363 

with  frivolous  indifference,  and  Toin  must  not  accuse  her  of 
that.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  grave,  earnest  gaze,  and 
said, — 

"  I  can't  make  you  think  better  of  me,  Tom,  by  anything  I 
can  say.  But  I  am  not  so  shut  out  from  all  your  feelings  as 
you  believe  me  to  be.  I  see  as  well  as  you  do,  that  from 
our  position  with  regard  to  Philip's  father  —  not  on  other 
grounds  —  it  would  be  unreasonable,  it  would  be  wrong,  f GJ- 
us  to  entertain  the  idea  of  marriage ;  and  I  have  given  up 
thinking  of  him  as  a  lover.  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,  and 
you  have  no  right  to  disbelieve  me  ;  I  have  kept  my  word  to 
you,  and  you  have  never  detected  me  in  a  falsehood.  I  should 
not  only  not  encourage,  I  should  carefully  avoid,  any  inter- 
course with  Philip  on  any  other  footing  than  of  quiet  friend- 
ship. You  may  think  that  I  am  unable  to  keep  my  resolutions ; 
but  at  least  you  ought  not  to  treat  me  with  hard  contempt  on 
the  ground  of  faults  that  I  have  not  committed  yet." 

"  Well,  Maggie,"  said  Tom,  softening  under  this  appeal,  "  I 
don't  want  to  overstrain  matters.  I  think,  all  things  consid- 
ered, it  will  be  best  for  you  to  see  Philip  Wakem,  if  Lucy 
wishes  him  to  come  to  the  house.  I  believe  what  you  say,  —  at 
least  you  believe  it  yourself,  I  know ;  I  can  only  warn  you.  I 
wish  to  be  as  good  a  brother  to  you  as  you  will  let  me." 

There  was  a  little  tremor  in  Tom's  voice  as  he  uttered  the 
last  words,  and  Maggie's  ready  affection  came  back  with  as 
sudden  a  glow  as  when  they  were  children,  and  bit  their  cake 
together  as  a  sacrament  of  conciliation.  She  rose  and  laid 
her  hand  on  Tom's  shoulder. 

"  Dear  Tom,  I  know  you  mean  to  be  good.  I  know  you  have 
had  a  great  deal  to  bear,  and  have  done  a  great  deal.  I  should 
like  to  be  a  comfort  to  you,  not  to  vex  you.  You  don't  think 
I  'in  altogether  naughty  now,  do  you  ?  " 

Tom  smiled  at  the  eager  face  ;  his  smiles  were  very  pleasant 
to  see  when  they  did  come,  for  the  grey  eyes  could  be  tender 
underneath  the  frown. 

"No,  Maggie." 

"  I  may  turn  out  better  than  you  expect." 

"  I  hope  you  will." 

"  And  may  I  come  some  day  and  make  tea  for  you,  and  see 
this  extremely  small  wife  of  Bob's  again  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  trot  away  now,  for  I  've  no  more  time  to  spare," 
said  Tom,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"  Not  to  give  me  a  kiss  ?  " 

Tom  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek,  and  then  said,  — 


364  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"There !  Be  a  good  girl.  I 've  got  a  great  deal  to  think  of 
to-day.  I  'in  going  to  have  a  long  consultation  with  my  uncle 
Deane  this  afternoon." 

"  You  '11  come  to  aunt  Glegg  's  to-morrow  ?  We  're  going  all 
to  dine  early,  that  we  may  go  there  to  tea.  You  must  come ; 
Lucy  told  me  to  say  so." 

"  Oh,  pooh  !  I  've  plenty  else  to  do,"  said  Tom,  pulling  his 
bell  violently,  and  bringing  down  the  small  bell-rope. 

"  I  'm  frightened ;  I  shall  run  away,"  said  Maggie,  making 
a  laughing  retreat ;  while  Tom,  with  masculine  philosophy, 
flung  the  bell-rope  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room ;  not  very 
far  either,  —  a  touch  of  human  experience  which  I  flatter  myself 
will  come  home  to  the  bosoms  of  not  a  few  substantial  or  dis- 
tinguished men  who  were  once  at  an  early  stage  of  their  rise 
in  the  world,  and  were  cherishing  very  large  hopes  in  very 
small  lodgings. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SHOWING    THAT    TOM    HAD    OPENED    THE    OYSTER. 

"  AND  now  we  've  settled  this  Newcastle  business,  Tom," 
said  Mr.  Deane,  that  same  afternoon,  as  they  were  seated  in 
the  private  room  at  the  Bank  together,  "  there 's  another  mat- 
ter I  want  to  talk  to  you  about.  Since  you  're  likely  to  have 
rather  a  smoky,  unpleasant  time  of  it  at  Newcastle  for  the 
next  few  weeks,  you  '11  want  a  good  prospect  of  some  sort  to 
keep  up  your  spirits." 

Tom  waited  less  nervously  than  he  had  done  on  a  former 
occasion  in  this  apartment,  while  his  uncle  took  out  his  snuff- 
box and  gratified  each  nostril  with  deliberate  impartiality. 

"  You  see,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Deane  at  last,  throwing  himself 
backward,  "  the  world  goes  on  at  a  smarter  pace  now  than  it  did 
when  I  was  a  young  fellow.  Why,  sir,  forty  years  ago,  when 
I  was  much  such  a  strapping  youngster  as  you,  a  man  expected 
to  pull  between  the  shafts  the  best  part  of  his  life,  before  he 
got  the  whip  in  his  hand.  The  looms  went  slowish,  and  fash- 
ions did  n't  alter  quite  so  fast ;  I  'd  a  best  suit  that  lasted  me 
six  years.  Everything  was  on  a  lower  scale,  sir,  —  in  point  of 
expenditure,  I  mean.  It 's  this  steam,  you  see,  that  has  made 
the  difference ;  it  drives  on  every  wheel  double  pace,  and  the 


THE    GREAT   TEMPTATION.  365 

wheel  of  fortune  along  with  'em,  as  our  Mr.  Stephen  Guest 
said  at  the  anniversary  dinner  (he  hits  these  things  off  won- 
derfully, considering  he 's  seen  nothing  of  business).  I  don't 
find  fault  with  the  change,  as  some  people  do.  Trade,  sir, 
opens  a  man's  eyes ;  and  if  the  population  is  to  get  thicker 
upon  the  ground,  as  it 's  doing,  the  world  must  use  its  wits  at 
inventions  of  one  sort  or  other.  I  know  I  've  done  my  share 
as  an  ordinary  man  of  business.  Somebody  has  said  it 's  a 
line  thing  to  make  two  ears  of  corn  grow  where  only  one  grew 
before ;  but,  sir,  it 's  a  fine  thing,  too,  to  further  the  exchange 
of  commodities,  and  bring  the  grains  of  corn  to  the  moutns 
that  are  hungry.  And  that 's  our  line  of  business  ;  and  I  con- 
sider it  as  honourable  a  position  as  a  man  can  hold,  to  be  con- 
nected with  it." 

Tom  knew  that  the  affair  his  uncle  had  to  speak  or  was  not 
urgent ;  Mr.  Deane  was  too  shrewd  and  practical  a  man  to 
allow  either  his  reminiscences  or  his  snuff  to  impede  the  prog- 
ress of  trade.  Indeed,  for  the  last  month  or  two,  there  had 
been  hints  thrown  out  to  Tom  which  enabled  him  to  guess 
that  he  was  going  to  hear  some  proposition  for  his  own  benefit. 
With  the  beginning  of  the  last  speech  he  had  stretched  out  his 
legs,  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  prepared  himself  for 
some  introductory  diffuseness,  tending  to  show  that  Mr.  Deane 
had  succeeded  by  his  own  merit,  and  that  what  he  had  to  say  to 
young  men  in  general  was,  that  if  they  did  n't  succeed  too,  it 
was  because  of  their  own  demerit.  He  was  rather  surprised, 
then,  when  his  uncle  put  a  direct  question  to  him. 

"  Let  me  see,  —  it 's  going  on  for  seven  years  now  since  you 
applied  to  me  for  a  situation,  eh,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  I  'm  three-and-twenty  now,"  said  Tom. 

"  Ah,  it 's  as  well  not  to  say  that,  though ;  for  you  'd  pass 
for  a  good  deal  older,  and  age  tells  well  in  business.  I  remem- 
ber your  coming  very  well ;  I  remember  I  saw  there  was  some 
pluck  in  you,  and  that  was  what  made  me  give  you  encourage- 
ment. And  I  'm  happy  to  say  I  was  right ;  I  'm  not  often 
deceived.  I  was  naturally  a  little  shy  at  pushing  my  nephew, 
but  I  'm  happy  to  say  you  've  done  me  credit,  sir ;  and  if  I  'd 
had  a  son  o'  my  own,  I  should  n't  have  been  sorry  to  see  him 
like  you." 

Mr.  Deane  tapped  his  box  and  opened  it  again,  repeating  in 
a  tone  of  some  feeling,  "  jSTo,  I  should  n't  have  been  sorry  to 
see  him  like  you." 

"  I  'm  very  glad  I  've  given  you  satisfaction,  sir ;  I  've  done 
my  best,"  said  Tom,  in  his  proud,  independent  way. 


366  THE   MILL    ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"Yes,  Tom,  you've  given  me  satisfaction.  I  don't  speak 
of  your  conduct  as  a,  sou;  though  that  weighs  with  me  in 
my  opinion  of  you.  But  what  I  have  to  do  with,  as  a  partner 
in  our  firm,  is  the  qualities  you  've  shown  as  a  man  o'  busi- 
ness. Ours  is  a  fine  business,  —  a  splendid  concern,  sir,  —  and 
there's  no  reason  why  it  shouldn't  go  on  growing;  there's 
a  growing  capital,  and  growing  outlets  for  it;  but  there's 
another  thing  that's  wanted  for  the  prosperity  of  every  con- 
cern, large  or  small,  and  that's  men  to  conduct  it,  —  men  of 
the  right  habits ;  none  o'  your  flashy  fellows,  but  such  as  are 
to  be  depended  on.  Now  this  is  what  Mr.  Guest  and  I  see 
clear  enough.  Three  years  ago  we  took  Gell  into  the  concern ; 
we  gave  him  a  share  in  the  oil-mill.  And  why  ''  Why,  be- 
cause Gell  was  a  fellow  whose  services  were  worth  a  premium. 
So  it  will  always  be,  sir.  So  it  was  Avith  me.  And  though 
Gell  is  pretty  near  ten  years  older  than  you,  there  are  other 
points  in  your  favour." 

Tom  was  getting  a  little  nervous  as  Mr.  Deane  went  on 
speaking ;  he  was  conscious  of  something  he  had  in  his  mind 
to  say,  which  might  not  be  agreeable  to  his  uncle,  simply 
because  it  was  a  new  suggestion  rather  than  an  acceptance  of 
the  proposition  he  foresaw. 

"  It  stands  to  reason."  Mr.  Deane  went  on,  when  he  had  fin- 
ished his  new  pinch,  "that  your  being  my  nephew  weighs  in 
your  favour;  but  I  don't  deny  that  if  you  'd  been  no  relation  of 
mine  at  all,  your  conduct  in  that  affair  of  Pelley's  bank  would 
have  led  Mr.  Guest  and  myself  to  make  some  acknowledgment 
of  the  service  you've  been  to  us  ;  and,  backed  by  your  general 
conduct  and  business  ability,  it  has  made  us  determine  on  giving 
you  a  share  in  the  business,  —  a  share  which  we  shall  be  glad 
to  increase  as  the  years  go  on.  We  think  that  '11  be  better,  on 
all  grounds,  than  raising  your  salary.  It  '11  give  you  more 
importance,  and  prepare  you  better  for  taking  some  of  the 
anxiety  off  my  shoulders  by-and-by.  I  'in  equal  to  a  good  deal 
o'  work  at  present,  thank  God ;  but  I  'm  getting  older,  —  there 's 
no  denying  that.  I  told  Mr.  Guest  I  would  open  the  subject 
to  you ;  and  when  you  come  back  from  this  northern  busii 
we  can  go  into  particulars.  This  is  a  great  stride  for  a  youn;.' 
fellow  of  three-and-twenty,  but  I  'm  bound  to  say  you  've 
deserved  it." 

"  I  'm  very  grateful  to  Mr.  Guest  and  you,  sir ;  of  course  I 
feel  the  most  indebted  to  you,  who  first  took  me  into  the 
business,  and  have  taken  a  good  deal  of  pains  with  me 
aince." 


THE    GREAT   TEMPTATION.  367 

Tom  spoke  with  a  slight  tremor,  and  paused  after  he  had 
said  this. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Deane.  "  I  don't  spare  pains  when  I 
see  they'll  be  of  any  use.  I  gave  myself  some  trouble  with 
Gell,  else  he  would  n't  have  been  what  he  is." 

"But  there's  one  thing  I  should  like  to  mention  to  you, 
uncle.  I  've  never  spoken  to  you  of  it  before.  If  you 
remember,  at  the  time  my  father's  property  was  sold,  there 
was  some  thought  of  your  firm  buying  the  Mill ;  I  know  you 
thought  it  would  be  a  very  good  investment,  especially  if 
steam  were  applied." 

"To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  But  Wakem  outbid  us;  he'd 
made  up  his  mind  to  that.  He's  rather  fond  of  carrying 
everything  over  other  people's  heads." 

"  Perhaps  it 's  of  no  use  my  mentioning  it  at  present,"  Tom 
went  on,  "  but  I  wish  you  to  know  what  I  have  in  my  mind 
about  the  Mill.  I  've  a  strong  feeling  about  it.  It  was  my 
father's-  dying  wish  that  I  should  try  and  get  it  back  again 
whenever  I  could;  it  was  in  his  family  for  five  generations. 
I  promised  my  father ;  and  besides  that,  I  'm  attached  to  the 
place.  I  shall  never  like  any  other  so  well.  And  if  it  should 
ever  suit  your  views  to  buy  it  for  the  firm,  I  should  have 
a  better  chance  of  fulfilling  my  father's  wish.  I  should  n't 
have  liked  to  mention  the  thing  to  you,  only  you've  been 
kind  enough  to  say  my  services  have  been  of  some  value. 
And  I  'd  give  up  a  much  greater  chance  in  life  for  the  sake  of 
having  the  Mill  again,  —  I  mean  having  it  in  my  own  hands, 
and  gradually  working  off  the  price." 

Mr.  Deane  had  listened  attentively,  and  now  looked  thought- 
ful. 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  he  said,  after  a  while  ;  "  the  thing  would  be 
possible  if  there  were  any  chance  of  Wakem's  parting  with 
the  property.  But  that  I  don't  see.  He  's  put  that  young 
Jetsome  in  the  place ;  and  he  had  his  reasons  when  he  bought 
it,  I  '11  be  bound." 

"  He 's  a  loose  fish,  that  young  Jetsome,"  said  Tom.  "  He 's 
taking  to  drinking,  and  they  say  he  's  letting  the  business  go 
down.  Luke  told  me  about  it,  —  our  old  miller.  He  says  he 
sha'n't  stay  unless  there  's  an  alteration.  I  was  thinking,  if 
things  went  on  in  that  way,  Wakem  might  be  more  willing  to 
part  with  the  Mill.  Luke  says  he 's  getting  very  sour  about 
the  way  things  are  going  on." 

"  Well,  I  '11  turn  it  over,  Tom.  I  must  inquire  into  the 
matter,  and  go  into  it  with  Mr.  Guest.  But,  you  see,  it 's 


368  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

rather  striking  out  a  new  branch,  and  putting  you  to  that, 
instead  of  keeping  you  where  you  are,  which,  was  what 
we'd  wanted." 

"  I  should  be  able  to  manage  more  than  the  Mill  when 
things  were  once  set  properly  going,  sir.  I  want  to  have 
plenty  of  work.  There  's  nothing  else  I  care  about  much." 

There  was  something  rather  sad  in  that  speech  from  a 
young  man  of  three-and-twenty,  even  in  Uncle  Deane's  busi- 
ness-loving ears. 

"Pooh,  pooh !  you'll  be  having  a  wife  to  care  about  one  of 
these  days,  if  you  get  on  at  this  pace  in  the  world.  But  as  to 
this  Mill,  we  must  n't  reckon  on  our  chickens  too  early.  How- 
ever, I  promise  you  to  bear  it  in  mind,  and  when  you  come 
back  we  '11  talk  of  it  again.  I  am  going  to  dinner  now.  Come 
and  breakfast  with  us  to-morrow  morning,  and  say  good-bye  to 
your  mother  and  sister  before  you  start." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ILLUSTRATING   THE    LAWS    OF    ATTRACTION. 

IT  is  evident  to  you  now  that  Maggie  had  arrived  at  » 
moment  in  her  life  which  must  be  considered  by  all  prudent 
persons  as  a  great  opportunity  for  a  young  woman.  Launched 
into  the  higher  society  of  St.  Ogg's,  with  a  striking  person, 
which  had  the  advantage  of  being  quite  unfamiliar  to  the 
majority  of  beholders,  and  with  such  moderate  assistance  of 
costume  as  you  have  seen  foreshadowed  in  Lucy's  anxious  col- 
loquy with  aunt  Pullet,  Maggie  was  certainly  at  a  new  starting- 
point  in  life.  At  Lucy's  first  evening  party,  young  Tony 
fatigued  his  facial  muscles  more  than  usual  in  order  that 
"the  dark-eyed  girl  there  in  the  corner"  might  see  him  in 
all  the  additional  style  conferred  by  his  eye-glass  ;  and  several 
young  ladies  went  home  intending  to  have  short  sleeves  with 
black  lace,  and  to  plait  their  hair  in  a  broad  coronet  at  the 
back  of  their  head,  —  "  That  cousin  of  Miss  Deane's  looked  so 
very  well."  In  fact,  poor  Maggie,  with  all  her  inward  con- 
sciousness of  a  painful  past  and  her  presentiment  of  a  troub- 
lous future,  was  on  the  way  to  become  an  object  of  some  envy, 
—  a  topic  of  discussion  in  the  newly  established  billiard-room, 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  369 

and  between  fair  friends  who  had  no  secrets  from  each  other 
on  the  subject  of  trimmings.  The  Miss  Guests,  who  associ- 
ated chiefly  on  terms  of  condescension  with  the  families  of  St. 
Ogg's,  and  were  the  glass  of  fashion  there,  took  some  excep- 
tion to  Maggie's  manners.  She  had  a  way  of  not  assenting  at 
once  to  the  observations  current  in  good  society,  and  of  saying 
that  she  did  n't  know  whether  those  observations  were  true  or 
not,  which  gave  her  an  air  of  gaucherie,  and  impeded  the  even 
flow  of  conversation ;  but  it  is  a  fact  capable  of  an  amiable 
interpretation,  that  ladies  are  not  the  worst  disposed  towards 
a  new  acquaintance  of  their  own  sex  because  she  has  points  of 
inferiority.  And  Maggie  was  so  entirely  without  those  pretty 
airs  of  coquetry  which  have  the  traditional  reputation  of  driv- 
ing gentlemen  to  despair,  that  she  won  some  feminine  pity 
for  being  so  ineffective  in  spite  of  her  beauty.  She  had  not 
had  many  advantages,  poor  thing !  and  it  must  be  admitted 
there  was  no  pretension  about  her ;  her  abruptness  and  un- 
evenness  of  manner  were  plainly  the  result  of  her  secluded 
and  lowly  circumstances.  It  was  only  a  wonder  that  there 
was  no  tinge  of  vulgarity  about  her,  considering  what  the 
rest  of  poor  Lucy's  relations  were,  —  an  allusion  which  always 
made  the  Miss  Guests  shudder  a  little.  It  was  not  agreeable 
to  think  of  any  connection  by  marriage  with  such  people  as 
the  Gleggs  and  the  Pullets ;  but  it  was  of  no  use  to  contradict 
Stephen  when  once  he  had  set  his  mind  on  anything,  and  cer- 
tainly there  was  no  possible  objection  to  Lucy  in  herself, — no 
one  could  help  liking  her.  She  would  naturally  desire  that 
the  Miss  Guests  should  behave  kindly  to  this  cousin  of  whom 
she  was  so  fond,  and  Stephen  would  make  a  great  fuss  if  they 
were  deficient  in  civility.  Under  these  circumstances  the  in- 
vitations to  Park  House  were  not  wanting;  and  elsewhere, 
also,  Miss  Deane  was  too  popular  and  too  distinguished  a 
member  of  society  in  St.  Ogg's  for  any  attention  towards  her 
to  be  neglected. 

Thus  Maggie  was  introduced  for  the  first  time  to  the  young 
lady's  life,  and  knew  what  it  was  to  get  up  in  the  morning 
without  any  imperative  reason  for  doing  one  thing  more  than 
another.  This  new  sense  of  leisure  and  unchecked  enjoyment 
amidst  the  soft-breathing  airs  and  garden-scents  of  advancing 
spring  —  amidst  the  new  abundance  of  music,  and  lingering 
strolls  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  delicious  dreaminess  of  glid- 
ing on  the  river  —  could  hardly  be  without  some  intoxicating 
effect  on  her,  after  her  years  of  privation  ;  and  even  in  the  first 
week  Maggie  began  to  be  less  haunted  by  her  sad  memories 

24 


370  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

and  anticipations.  Life  was  certainly  very  pleasant  just  now ; 
it  was  becoming  very  pleasant  to  dress  in  the  evening,  and  to 
feel  that  she  was  one  of  the  beautiful  things  of  this  spring- 
time. And  there  were  admiring  eyes  always  awaiting  her 
now ;  she  was  no  longer  an  unheeded  person,  liable  to  be  chid, 
from  whom  attention  was  continually  claimed,  and  on  whom 
no  one  felt  bound  to  confer  any.  It  was  pleasant,  too,  when 
Stephen  and  Lucy  were  gone  out  riding,  to  sit  down  at  the 
piano  alone,  and  find  that  the  old  fitness  between  her  fingers 
and  the  keys  remained,  and  revived,  like  a  sympathetic  kin- 
ship not  to  be  worn  out  by  separation ;  to  get  the  tunes  she 
had  heard  the  evening  before,  and  repeat  them  again  and  again 
until  she  had  found  out  a  way  of  producing  them  so  as  to 
make  them  a  more  pregnant,  passionate  language  to  her.  The 
mere  concord  of  octaves  was  a  delight  to  Maggie,  and  she 
would  often  take  up  a  book  of  studies  rather  than  any  melody, 
that  she  might  taste  more  keenly  by  abstraction  the  more 
primitive  sensation  of  intervals.  Not  that  her  enjoyment  of 
music  was  of  the  kind  that  indicates  a  great  specific  talent ;  it 
was  rather  that  her  sensibility  to  the  supreme  excitement  of 
music  was  only  one  form  of  that  passionate  sensibility  which 
belonged  to  her  whole  nature,  and  made  her  faults  and  virtues 
all  merge  in  each  other;  made  her  affections  sometimes  an 
impatient  demand,  but  also  prevented  her  vanity  from  taking 
the  form  of  mere  feminine  coquetry  and  device,  and  gave  it 
the  poetry  of  ambition.  But  you  have  known  Maggie  a  long 
while,  and  need  to  be  told,  not  her  characteristics,  but  her 
history,  which  is  a  thing  hardly  to  be  predicted  even  from  the 
completest  knowledge  of  characteristics.  For  the  tragedy  of 
our  lives  is  not  created  entirely  from  within.  "Character," 
says  Novalis,  in  one  of  his  questionable  aphorisms,  —  "  char- 
acter is  destiny."  But  not  the  whole  of  our  destiny.  Hamlet, 
Prince  of  Denmark,  was  speculative  and  irresolute,  and  we 
have  a  great  tragedy  in  consequence.  But  if  his  father  had 
lived  to  a  good  old  age,  and  his  uncle  had  died  an  early  death, 
we  can  conceive  Hamlet's  having  married  Ophelia,  and  got 
through  life  with  a  reputation  of  sanity,  notwithstanding 
many  soliloquies,  and  some  moody  sarcasms  towards  the  fail- 
daughter  of  Polonius,  to  say  nothing  of  the  frankest  incivility 
to  his  father-in-law. 

Maggie's  destiny,  then,  is  at  present  hidden,  and  we  must 
wait  for  it  to  reveal  itself  like  the  course  of  an  unmapped  river ; 
we  only  know  that  the  river  is  full  and  rapid,  and  that  for  all 
rivers  there  is  the  same  final  home.  Under  the  charm  of  her 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  371 

new  pleasures,  Maggie  herself  was  ceasing  to  think,  with  her 
eager  prefiguring  imagination,  of  her  future  lot;  and  her 
anxiety  about  her  first  interview  with  Philip  was  losing  its 
predominance ;  perhaps,  unconsciously  to  herself,  she  was  not 
sorry  that  the  interview  had  been  deferred. 

For  Philip  had  not  come  the  evening  he  was  expected,  and 
Mr.  Stephen  Guest  brought  word  that  he  was  gone  to  the  coast, 
—  probably,  he  thought,  on  a  sketching  expedition ;  but  it  was 
not  certain  when  he  would  return.  It  was  just  like  Philip, 
to  go  off  in  that  way  without  telling  any  one.  It  was  not  un- 
til the  twelfth  day  that  he  returned,  to  find  both  Lucy's  notes 
awaiting  him  ;  he  had  left  before  he  knew  of  Maggie's  arrival. 

Perhaps  one  had  need  be  nineteen  again  to  be  quite  con- 
vinced of  the  feelings  that  were  crowded  for  Maggie  into 
those  twelve  days ;  of  the  length  to  which  they  were 
stretched  for  her  by  the  novelty  of  her  experience  in  them, 
and  the  varying  attitudes  of  her  mind.  The  early  days  of  an 
acquaintance  almost  always  have  this  importance  for  us,  and 
fill  up  a  larger  space  in  our  memory  than  longer  subsequent 
periods,  which  have  been  less  filled  with  discovery  and  new 
impressions.  There  were  not  many  hours  in  those  ten  days 
in  which  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  was  not  seated  by  Lucy's  side,  or 
standing  near  her  at  the  piano,  or  accompanying  her  on  some 
outdoor  excursion ;  his  attentions  were  clearly  becoming  more 
assiduous,  and  that  was  what  every  one  had  expected.  Lucy 
was  very  happy,  all  the  happier  because  Stephen's  society 
seemed  to  have  become  much  more  interesting  and  amusing 
since  Maggie  had  been  there.  Playful  discussions  —  some- 
times serious  ones  —  were  going  forward,  in  which  both 
Stephen  and  Maggie  revealed  themselves,  to  the  admiration 
of  the  gentle,  unobtrusive  Lucy ;  and  it  more  than  once  crossed 
her  mind  what  a  charming  quartet  they  should  have  through 
life  when  Maggie  married  Philip.  Is  it  an  inexplicable  thing 
that  a  girl  should  enjoy  her  lover's  society  the  more  for  the 
presence  of  a  third  person,  and  be  without  the  slightest  spasm 
of  jealousy  that  the  third  person  had  the  conversation  habitu- 
ally directed  to  her  ?  Not  when  that  girl  is  as  tranquil-hearted 
as  Lucy,  thoroughly  possessed  with  a  belief  that  she  knows 
the  state  of  her  companions'  affections,  and  not  prone  to  the 
feelings  which  shake  such  a  belief  in  the  absence  of  positive 
evidence  against  it.  Besides,  it  was  Lucy  by  whom  Stephen 
sat,  to  whom  he  gave  his  arm,  to  whom  he  appealed  as  the 
person  sure  to  agree  with  him ;  and  every  day  there  was  the 
same  tender  politeness  towards  her,  the  same  consciousnees  of 


372  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

her  wants  and  care  to  supply  them.  Was  there  really  the 
same  ?  It  seemed  to  Lucy  that  there  was  more  ;  and  it  was 
no  wonder  that  the  real  significance  of  the  change  escaped  her. 
It  was  a  subtle  act  of  conscience  in  Stephen  that  even  he  him- 
self was  not  aware  of.  His  personal  attentions  to  Maggie 
were  comparatively  slight,  and  there  had  even  sprung  up  an 
apparent  distance  between  them,  that  prevented  the  renewal 
of  that  faint  resemblance  to  gallantry  into  which  he  had  fallen 
the  first  day  in  the  boat.  If  Stephen  came  in  when  Lucy  was 
out  of  the  room,  if  Lucy  left  them  together,  they  never  spoke 
to  each  other ;  Stephen,  perhaps,  seemed  to  be  examining  books 
or  music,  and  Maggie  bent  her  head  assiduously  over  her 
work.  Each  was  oppressively  conscious  of  the  other's  pres- 
ence, even  to  the  finger-ends.  Yet  each  looke'  and  longed 
for  the  same  thing' to  happen  the  next  day.  Neither  of  them 
had  begun  to  reflect  on  the  matter,  or  silently  to  ask,  "To 
what  does  all  this  tend  ?  "  Maggie  only  felt  that  life  was  re- 
vealing something  quite  new  to  her ;  and  she  was  absorbed  in 
the  direct,  immediate  experience,  without  any  energy  left  for 
taking  account  of  it  and  reasoning  .about  it.  Stephen  wilfully 
abstained  from  self-questioning,  and  would  not  admit  to  himself 
that  he  felt  an  influence  which  was  to  have  any  determining 
effect  on  his  conduct.  And  when  Lucy  came  into  the  room 
again,  they  were  once  more  unconstrained ;  Maggie  could  con- 
tradict Stephen,  and  laugh  at  him,  and  he  could  recommend  to 
her  consideration  the  example  of  that  most  charming  heroine, 
Miss  Sophia  Western,  who  had  a  great  "  respect  for  the  un- 
derstandings of  men."  Maggie  could  look  at  Stephen,  which, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  she  always  avoided  when  they  were 
alone ;  and  he  could  even  ask  her  to  play  his  accompaniment 
for  him,  since  Lucy's  fingers  were  so  busy  with  that  bazaar- 
work,  and  lecture  her  on  hurrying  the  tempo,  which  was  cer- 
tainly Maggie's  weak  point. 

One  day  —  it  was  the  day  of  Philip's  return  —  Lucy  had 
formed  a  sudden  engagement  to  spend  the  evening  with  Mrs. 
Kenn,  whose  delicate  state  of  health,  threatening  to  become 
confirmed  illness  through  an  attack  of  bronchitis,  obliged  her 
to  resign  her  functions  at  the  coming  bazaar  into  the  hands  of 
other  ladies,  of  whom  she  wished  Lucy  to  be  one.  The  en- 
gagement had  been  formed  in  Stephen's  presence,  and  he  had 
heard  Lucy  promise  to  dine  early  and  call  at  six  o'clock  for 
Miss  Torry,  who  brought  Mrs.  Kenn's  request. 

"  Here  is  another  of  the  moral  results  of  this  idiotic  bazaar," 
Stephen  burst  forth,  as  soon  as  Miss  Torry  had  left  the  room. 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  373 

— "  taking  young  ladies  from  the  duties  of  the  domestic 
hearth  into  scenes  of  dissipation  among  urn-rugs  and  em- 
broidered reticules !  I  should  like  to  know  what  is  the 
proper  function  of  women,  if  it  is  not  to  make  reasons  for 
husbands  to  stay  at  home,  and  still  stronger  reasons  for 
bachelors  to  go  out.  If  this  goes  on  much  longer,  the  bonds 
of  society  will  be  dissolved." 

"  Well,  it  will  not  go  on  much  longer,"  said  Lucy,  laughing, 
"  for  the  bazaar  is  to  take  place  on  Monday  week." 

"  Thank  Heaven !  "  said  Stephen.  "  Kenn  himself  said  the 
other  day  that  he  did  n't  like  this  plan  of  making  vanity  do 
the  work  of  charity ;  but  just  as  the  British  public  is  not  rea- 
sonable enough  to  bear  direct  taxation,  so  St.  Ogg's  has  not 
got  force  of  motive  enough  to  build  and  endow  schools  without 
calling  in  the  force  of  folly." 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?  "  said  little  Lucy,  her  hazel  eyes  opening 
wide  with  anxiety.  "  I  never  heard  him  say  anything  of  that 
kind ;  I  thought  he  approved  of  what  we  were  doing." 

" I 'm  sure  he  approves  you"  said  Stephen,  smiling  at  her 
affectionately ;  "  your  conduct  in  going  out  to-night  looks 
vicious,  I  own,  but  I  know  there  is  benevolence  at  the  bottom 
of  it."  ' 

"  Oh,  you  think  too  well  of  me,"  said  Lucy,  shaking  her  head, 
with  a  pretty  blush,  and  there  the  subject  ended.  But  it  was 
tacitly  understood  that  Stephen  would  not  come  in  the  evening ; 
and  on  the  strength  of  that  tacit  understanding,  he  made  his 
morning  visit  the  longer,  not  saying  good-bye  until  after  four. 

Maggie  was  seated  in  the  drawing-room,  alone,  shortly  after 
dinner,  with  Minny  on  her  lap,  having  left  her  uncle  to  his 
wine  and  his  nap,  and  her  mother  to  the  compromise  between 
knitting  and  nodding,  which,  when  there  was  no  company,  she 
always  carried  on  in  the  dining-room  till  tea-time.  Maggie 
was  stooping  to  caress  the  tiny  silken  pet,  and  comforting  him 
for  his  mistress's  absence,  when  the  sound  of  a  footstep  on  the 
gravel  made  her  look  up,  and  she  saw  Mr.  Stephen  Guest 
walking  up  the  garden,  as  if  he  had  come  straight  from  the 
river.  It  was  very  unusual  to  see  him  so  soon  after  dinner  ! 
He  often  complained  that  their  dinner-hour  was  late  at  Park 
House.  Nevertheless,  there  he  was,  in  his  black  dress ;  he 
had  evidently  been  home,  and  must  have  come  again  by  the 
river.  Maggie  felt  her  cheeks  glowing  and  her  heart  beating ; 
it  was  natural  she  should  be  nervous,  for  she  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  receive  visitors  alone.  He  had  seen  her  look  up 
through  the  open  window,  and  raised  his  hat  as  he  walked 


374  THE  MILL   ON1  THE  FLOSS. 

towards  it,  to  enter  that  way  instead  of  by  the  door.  He 
blushed  too,  and  certainly  looked  as  foolish  as  a  young  man 
of  some  wit  and  self-possession  can  be  expected  to  look,  as  he 
walked  in  with  a  roll  of  music  in  his  hand,  and  said,  with  an 
air  of  hesitating  improvisation,  — 

"  You  are  surprised  to  see  me  again,  Miss  Tulliver  ;  I  ought 
to  apologise  for  coming  upon  you  by  surprise,  but  I  wanted  to 
come  into  the  town,  and  I  got  our  man  to  row  me  ;  so  I  thought 
1  would  bring  these  things  from  the  '  Maid  of  Artois '  for  your 
cousin ;  I  forgot  them  this  morning.  Will  you  give  them  to 
her?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie,  who  had  risen  confusedly  with  Minny 
in  her  arms,  and  now,  not  quite  knowing  what  else  to  do,  sat 
down  again. 

Stephen  laid  down  his  hat,  with  the  music,  which  rolled 
on  the  floor,  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  close  by  her.  He  had 
never  done  so  before,  and  both  he  and  Maggie  were  quite 
aware  that  it  was  an  entirely  new  position. 

"  Well,  you  pampered  minion  ! "  said  Stephen,  leaning  to  pull 
the  long  curly  ears  that  drooped  over  Maggie's  arm.  It  w;is 
not  a  suggestive  remark,  and  as  the  speaker  did  not  follow  it 
up  by  further  development,  it  naturally  left  the  conversation 
at  a  stand-still.  It  seemed  to  Stephen  like  some  action  in  a 
dream  that  he  was  obliged  to  do,  and  wonder  at  himself  all 
the  while,  —  to  go  on  stroking  Minny's  head.  Yet  it  was  very 
pleasant ;  he  only  wished  he  dared  look  at  Maggie,  and  that 
she  would  look  at  him,  —  let  him  have  one  long  look  into  those 
deep,  strange  eyes  of  hers,  and  then  he  would  be  satisfied  and 
quite  reasonable  after  that.  He  thought  it  was  becoming  a 
sort  of  monomania  with  him,  to  want  that  long  look  from 
Maggie  ;  and  he  was  racking  his  invention  continually  to  find 
out  some  means  by  which  he  could  have  it  without  its  appear- 
ing singular  and  entailing  subsequent  embarrassment.  As 
for  Maggie,  she  had  no  distinct  thought,  only  the  sense  of  a 
presence  like  that  of  a  closely  hovering  broad-winged  bird  in 
the  darkness,  for  she  was  unable  to  look  up,  and  saw  nothing 
but  Minny's  black  wavy  coat. 

But  this  must  end  some  time,  perhaps  it  ended  very  soon, 
and  only  seemed  long,  as  a  minute's  dream  does.  Stephen  at 
last  sat  upright  sideways  in  his  chair,  leaning  one  hand  and 
arm  over  the  back  and  looking  at  Maggie.  What  should  he 
say? 

"  We  shall  have  a  splendid  sunset,  I  think }  sha'n't  you  go 
out  and  see  it  ?  " 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  375 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Maggie.  Then,  courageously  raising 
her  eyes  and  looking  out  of  the  window,  "  if  I  'm  not  playing 
cribbage  with  my  uncle." 

A  pause  ;  during  which  Minny  is  stroked  again,  but  has  suf- 
ficient insight  not  to  be  grateful  for  it,  to  growl  rather. 

"  Do  you  like  sitting  alone  ?  " 

A  rather  arch  look  came  over  Maggie's  face,  and,  just  glanc- 
ing at  Stephen,  she  said,  "Would  it  be  quite  civil  to  say 
1  yes '  ?  " 

"  It  was  rather  a  dangerous  question  for  an  intruder  to 
ask,"  said  Stephen,  delighted  with  that  glance,  and  getting 
determined  to  stay  for  another.  "But  you  will  have  more 
than  half  an  hour  to  yourself  after  I  am  gone,"  he  added, 
taking  out  his  watch.  "  I  know  Mr.  Deane  never  comes  in 
till  half-past  seven." 

Another  pause,  during  which  Maggie  looked  steadily  out 
of  the  window,  till  by  a  great  effort  she  moved  her  head  to 
look  down  at  Minny 's  back  again,  and  said, — 

"  I  wish  Lucy  had  not  been  obliged  to  go  out.  We  lose  our 
music." 

"  We  shall  have  a  new  voice  to-morrow  night,"  said  Stephen. 
"  Will  you  tell  your  cousin  that  our  friend  Philip  Wakem  is 
come  back  ?  I  saw  him  as  I  went  home." 

Maggie  gave  a  little  start,  —  it  seemed  hardly  more  than  a 
vibration  that  passed  from  head  to  foot  in  an  instant.  But 
the  new  images  summoned  by  Philip's  name  dispersed  half 
the  oppressive  spell  she  had  been  under.  She  rose  from  her 
chair  with  a  sudden  resolution,  and  laying  Minny  on  his 
cushion,  went  to  reach  Lucy's  large  work-basket  from  its 
corner.  Stephen  was  vexed  and  disappointed;  he  thought 
perhaps  Maggie  didn't  like  the  name  of  Wakem  to  be  men- 
tioned to  her  in  that  abrupt  way,  for  he  now  recalled  what 
Lucy  had  told  him  of  the  family  quarrel.  It  was  of  no  use 
to  stay  any  longer.  Maggie  was  seating  herself  at  the  table 
with  her  work,  and  looking  chill  and  proud ;  and  he  —  he 
looked  like  a  simpleton  for  having  come.  A  gratuitous,  en 
tirely  superfluous  visit  of  that  sort  was  sure  to  make  a  man  disa 
greeable  and  ridiculous.  Of  course  it  was  palpable  to  Maggie's 
thinking,  that  he  had  dined  hastily  in  his  own  room  for 
the  sake  of  setting  off  again  and  finding  her  alone. 

A  boyish  state  of  mind  for  an  accomplished  young  gentle- 
man of  five-and-twenty,  not  without  legal  knowledge !  But  a 
reference  to  history,  perhaps,  may  make  it  not  incredible. 

At  this  moment  Maggie's  ball  of  knitting-wool  rolled  along 


376  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

the  ground,  and  she  started  up  to  reach  it.  Stephen  rose  too, 
and  picking  up  the  ball,  met  her  with  a  vexed,  complaining 
look  that  gave  his  eyes  quite  a  new  expression  to  Maggie, 
whose  own  eyes  met  them  as  he  presented  the  ball  to  her. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Stephen,  in  a  tone  that  had  the  same 
beseeching  discontent  as  his  eyes.  He  dared  not  put  out 
his  hand;  he  thrust  both  hands  into  his  tail-pockets  as  he 
spoke.  Maggie  thought  she  had  perhaps  been  rude. 

"  Won't  you  stay  ?  "  she  said  timidly,  not  looking  away,  for 
that  would  have  seemed  rude  again. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Stephen,  looking  still  into  the  half- 
unwilling,  half-fascinated  eyes,  as  a  thirsty  man  looks  towards 
the  track  of  the  distant  brook.  "  The  boat  is  waiting  for  me. 
You  '11  tell  your  cousin  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  That  I  brought  the  music,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  that  Philip  is  come  back  ?  " 

"  Yes."    (Maggie  did  not  notice  Philip's  name  this  time.) 

"  Won't  you  come  out  a  little  way  into  the  garden  ?  "  said 
Stephen,  in  a  still  gentler  tone  ;  but  the  next  moment  he  was 
vexed  that  she  did  not  say  "  No,"  for  she  moved  away  now 
towards  the  open  window,  and  he  was  obliged  to  take  his  hat 
and  walk  by  her  side.  But  he  thought  of  something  to  make 
him  amends. 

"  Do  take  my  arm,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  as  if  it  were  a 
secret. 

There  is  something  strangely  winning  to  most  women  in 
that  offer  of  the  firm  arm  ;  the  help  is  not  wanted  physically 
at  that  moment,  but  the  sense  of  help,  the  presence  of  strength 
that  is  outside  them  and  yet  theirs,  meets  a  continual  want  of 
the  imagination.  Either  on  that  ground  or  some  other,  Maggie 
took  the  arm.  And  they  walked  together  round  the  grass-plot 
and  under  the  drooping  green  of  the  laburnums,  in  the  same 
dim,  dreamy  state  as  they  had  been  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
'Before ;  only  that  Stephen  had  had  the  look  he  longed  for, 
•vithout  yet  perceiving  in  himself  the  symptoms  of  returning 
reasonableness,  and  Maggie  had  darting  thoughts  across  the 
dimness,  —  how  came  he  to  be  there  ?  Why  had  she  come 
out  ?  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  If  it  had  been,  each  would 
have  been  less  intensely  conscious  of  the  other. 

"  Take  care  of  this  step,"  said  Stephen  at  last. 

"  Oh,  I  will  go  in  now,"  said  Maggie,  feeling  that  the  step 
had  come  like  a  rescue.  "  Good  evening." 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  377 

In  an  instant  she  had  withdrawn  her  arm,  and  was  running 
back  to  the  house.  She  did  not  reflect  that  this  sudden  action 
would  only  add  to  the  embarrassing  recollections  of  the  last 
half -hour.  She  had  no  thought  left  for  that.  She  only  threw 
herself  into  the  low  arm-chair,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  Philip,  Philip,  I  wish  we  were  together  again  —  so 
quietly  —  in  the  Red  Deeps." 

Stephen  looked  after  her  a  moment,  then  went  on  to  the 
boat,  and  was  soon  landed  at  the  wharf.  He  spent  the  even- 
ing in  the  billiard-room,  smoking  one  cigar  after  another,  and 
losing  "  lives  "  at  pool.  But  he  would  not  leave  off.  He  was 
determined  not  to  think,  —  not  to  admit  any  more  distinct 
remembrance  than  was  urged  upon  him  by  the  perpetual  pres- 
ence of  Maggie.  He  was  looking  at  her,  and  she  was  on  his 
arm. 

But  there  came  the  necessity  of  walking  home  in  the  cool 
starlight,  and  with  it  the  necessity  of  cursing  his  own  folly, 
and  bitterly  determining  that  he  would  never  trust  himself 
alone  with  Maggie  again.  It  was  all  madness ;  he  was  in 
love,  thoroughly  attached  to  Lucy,  and  engaged,  —  engaged 
as  strongly  as  an  honourable  man  need  be.  He  wished  he 
had  never  seen  this  Maggie  Tulliver,  to  be  thrown  into  a  fever 
by  her  in  this  way ;  she  would  make  a  sweet,  strange,  trou- 
blesome, adorable  wife  to  some  man  or  other,  but  he  would 
never  have  chosen  her  himself.  Did  she  feel  as  he  did  ? 
He  hoped  she  did  —  not.  He  ought  not  to  have  gone.  He 
would  master  himself  in  future.  He  would  make  himself  dis- 
agreeable to  her,  quarrel  with  her  perhaps.  Quarrel  with 
her  ?  Was  it  possible  to  quarrel  with  a  creature  who  had 
such  eyes,  —  defying  and  deprecating,  contradicting  and  cling- 
ing, imperious  and  beseeching,  —  full  of  delicious  opposites  ? 
To  see  such  a  creature  subdued  by  love  for  one  would  be  a 
lot  worth  having  —  to  another  man. 

There  was  a  muttered  exclamation  which  ended  this  inward 
soliloquy,  as  Stephen  threw  away  the  end  of  his  last  cigar, 
and  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  stalked  along  at  a 
quieter  pace  through  the  shrubbery.  It  was  not  of  a 
benedictory  kind. 


378  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

PHILIP    KE-ENTEKS. 

THE  next  morning  was  very  wet , —  the  sort  of  morning  on 
which  male  neighbours  who  have  no  imperative  occupation 
at  home  are  likely  to  pay  their  fair  friends  an  illimitable  visit. 
The  rain,  which  has  been  endurable  enough  for  the  walk  or 
ride  one  way,  is  sure  to  become  so  heavy,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  certain  to  clear  up  by-and-by,  that  nothing  but  an 
open  quarrel  can  abbreviate  the  visit ;  latent  detestation  will 
not  do  at  all.  And  if  people  happen  to  be  lovers,  what  can 
be  so  delightful,  in  England,  as  a  rainy  morning?  English 
sunshine  is  dubious ;  bonnets  are  never  quite  secure ;  and  if 
you  sit  down  on  the  grass,  it  may  lead  to  catarrhs.  But  the 
rain  is  to  be  depended  on.  You  gallop  through  it  in  a  mack- 
intosh, and  presently  find  yourself  in  the  seat  you  like  best, 
—  a  little  above  or  a  little  below  the  one  on  which  your  god- 
dess sits  (it  is  the  same  thing  to  the  metaphysical  mind,  and 
that  is  the  reason  why  women  are  at  once  worshipped  and 
looked  down  upon),  with  a  satisfactory  confidence  that  there 
will  be  no  lady-callers. 

"  Stephen  will  come  earlier  this  morning,  I  know,"  said 
Lucy  ;  "  he  always  does  when  it 's  rainy." 

Maggie  made  no  answer.  She  was  angry  with  Stephen ; 
she  began  to  think  she  should  dislike  him ;  and  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  rain,  she  would  have  gone  to  her  aunt  Glegg's 
this  morning,  and  so  have  avoided  him  altogether.  As  it  was, 
she  must  find  some  reason  for  remaining  out  of  the  room  with 
her  mother. 

But  Stephen  did  not  come  earlier,  and  there  was  another 
visitor  —  a  nearer  neighbour  —  who  preceded  him.  When 
Philip  entered  the  room,  he  was  going  merely  to  bow  to 
Maggie,  feeling  that  their  acquaintance  was  a  secret  which 
he  was  bound  not  to  betray ;  but  when  she  advanced  towards 
him  and  put  out  her  hand,  he  guessed  at  once  that  Lucy  had 
been  taken  into  her  confidence.  It  was  a  moment  of  some 
agitation  to  both,  though  Philip  had  spent  many  hours  in 
preparing  for  it ;  but  like  all  persons  who  have  passed  through 
life  with  little  expectation  of  sympathy,  he  seldom  lost  his 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  379 

self-control,  and  shrank  with  the  most  sensitive  pride  from 
any  noticeable  betrayal  of  emotion.  A  little  extra  paleness, 
a  little  tension  of  the  nostril  when  he  spoke,  and  the  voice 
pitched  in  rather  a  higher  key,  that  to  strangers  would  seem 
expressive  of  cold  indifference,  were  all  the  signs  Philip 
usually  gave  of  an  inward  drama  that  was  not  without  its 
fierceness.  But  Maggie,  who  had  little  more  power  of  con- 
cealing the  impressions  made  upon  her  than  if  she  had  been 
constructed  of  musical  strings,  felt  her  eyes  getting  larger 
with  tears  as  they  took  each  other's  hands  in  silence.  They 
were  not  painful  tears;  they  had  rather  something  of  the 
same  origin  as  the  tears  women  and  children  shed  when  they 
have  found  some  protection  to  cling  to  and  look  back  on  the 
threatened  danger.  For  Philip,  who  a  little  while  ago  was 
associated  continually  in  Maggie's  mind  with  the  sense  that 
Tom  might  reproach  her  with  some  justice,  had  now,  in  this 
short  space,  become  a  sort  of  outward  conscience  to  her,  that 
she  might  fly  to  for  rescue  and  strength.  Her  tranquil,  tender 
affection  for  Philip,  with  its  root  deep  down  in  her  childhood, 
and  its  memories  of  long  quiet  talk  confirming  by  distinct  suc- 
cessive impressions  the  first  instinctive  bias,  —  the  fact  that 
in  him  the  appeal  was  more  strongly  to  her  pity  and  womanly 
devotedness  than  to  her  vanity  or  other  egoistic  excitability 
of  her  nature,  —  seemed  now  to  make  a  sort  of  sacred  place,  a 
sanctuary  where  she  could  find  refuge  from  an  alluring  influ- 
ence which  the  best  part  of  herself  must  resist ;  which  must 
bring  horrible  tumult  within,  wretchedness  without.  This 
new  sense  of  her  relation  to  Philip  nullified  the  anxious 
scruples  she  would  otherwise  have  felt,  lest  she  should  over- 
step the  limit  of  intercourse  with  him  that  Tom  would  sanc- 
tion ;  and  she  put  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  felt  the  tears  in 
her  eyes  without  any  consciousness  of  an  inward  check.  The 
scene  was  just  what  Lucy  expected,  and  her  kind  heart 
delighted  in  bringing  Philip  and  Maggie  together  again ; 
though,  even  with  all  her  regard  for  Philip,  she  could  not 
resist  the  impression  that  her  cousin  Tom  had  some  excuse 
for  feeling  shocked  at  the  physical  incongruity  between  the 
two,  —  a  prosaic  person  like  cousin  Tom,  who  did  n't  like 
poetry  and  fairy  tales.  But  she  began  to  speak  as  soon  as 
possible,  to  set  them  at  ease. 

"  This  was  very  good  and  virtuous  of  you,"  she  said,  in  her 
pretty  treble,  like  the  low  conversational  notes  of  little  birds, 
"to  come  so  soon  after  your  arrival.  And  as  it  is,  I  think  I 
will  pardon  you  for  running  away  in  an  inopportune  manner, 


880  THE   MILL    ON   THE   FLOSS. 

and  giving  your  friends  no  notice.  Come  and  sit  down  here," 
she  went  on,  placing  the  chair  that  would  suit  him  best,  ''and 
you  shall  find  yourself  treated  mercifully." 

"  You  will  never  govern  well,  Miss  l5eane,"  said  Philip,  as 
he  seated  himself,  "  because  no  one  will  ever  believe  in  your 
severity.  People  will  always  encourage  themselves  in  misde- 
meanours by  the  certainty  that  you  will  be  indulgent." 

Lucy  gave  some  playful  contradiction,  but  Philip  did  not 
hear  what  it  was,  for  he  had  naturally  turned  towards  Maggie, 
and  she  was  looking  at  him  with  that  open,  affectionate 
scrutiny  which  we  give  to  a  friend  from  whom  we  have  \x-c\\ 
long  separated.  What  a  moment  their  parting  had  been  ! 
And  Philip  felt  as  if  he  were  only  in  the  morrow  of  it.  He 
felt  this  so  keenly,  —  with  such  intense,  detailed  remembrance, 
with  such  passionate  revival  of  all  that  had  been  said  and 
looked  in  their  last  conversation,  —  that  with  that  jealousy 
and  distrust  which  in  diffident  natures  is  almost  inevitably 
linked  with  a  strong  feeling,  he  thought  he  read  in  Maggie's 
glance  and  manner  the  evidence  of  a  change.  The  very  1'aet 
that  he  feared  and  half  expected  it  would  be  sure  to  make 
this  thought  rush  in,  in  the  absence  of  positive  proof  to  the 
contrary. 

"  I  am  having  a  great  holiday,  am  I  not  ?  "  said  Maggie. 
"  Lucy  is  like  a  fairy  godmother ;  she  has  turned  me  from  a 
drudge  into  a  princess  in  no  time.  I  do  nothing  but  indulge 
myself  all  day  long,  and  she  always  finds  out  what  I  want 
before  I  know  it  myself." 

"  I  am  sure  she  is  the  happier  for  having  you,  then,"  said 
Philip.  "  You  must  be  better  than  a  whole  menagerie  of  pets 
to  her.  And  you  look  well.  You  are  benefiting  by  the 
change." 

Artificial  conversation  of  this  sort  went  on  a  little  while, 
till  Lucy,  determined  to  put  an  end  to  it,  exclaimed,  with  a 
good  imitation  of  annoyance,  that  she  had  forgotten  some- 
thing, and  was  quickly  out  of  the  room. 

In  a  moment  Maggie  and  Philip  leaned  forward,  and  the 
hands  were  clasped  again,  with  a  look  of  sad  contentment, 
like  that  of  friends  who  meet  in  the  memory  of  recent  sorrow. 

"  I  told  my  brother  I  wished  to  see  you,  Philip ;  I  asked 
him  to  release  me  from  my  promise,  and  he  consented." 

Maggie,  in  her  impulsiveness,  wanted  Philip  to  know  at 
once  the  position  they  must  hold  towards  each  other ;  but  she 
checked  herself.  The  things  that  had  happened  since  he  had 
spoken  of  his  love  for  her  were  so  painful  that  she  shrank 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  381 

from  being  the  first  to  allude  to  them.  It  seemed  almost  like 
an  injury  towards  Philip  even  to  mention  her  brother,  —  her 
brother,  who  had  insulted  him.  But  he  was  thinking  too 
entirely  of  her  to  be  sensitive  on  any  other  point  at  that 
moment. 

"  Then  we  can  at  least  be  friends,  Maggie  ?  There  is  noth- 
ing to  hinder  that  now  ?  " 

"  Will  not  your  father  object  ?  "  said  Maggie,  withdrawing 
her  hand. 

"  I  should  not  give  you  up  on  any  ground  but  your  own 
wish,  Maggie,"  said  Philip,  colouring.  "There  are  points  on 
which  I  should  always  resist  my  father,  as  I  used  to  tell  you. 
That  is  one." 

"  Then  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  our  being  friends,  Philip,  — 
seeing  each  other  and  talking  to  each  other  while  I  am  here; 
I  shall  soon  go  away  again.  I  mean  to  go  very  soon,  to  a  new 
situation." 

"  Is  that  inevitable,  Maggie  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  must  not  stay  here  long.  It  would  unfit  me  for 
the  life  I  must  begin  again  at  last.  I  can't  live  in  dependence, 
—  I  can't  live  with  my  brother,  though  he  is  very  good  to  me. 
He  would  like  to  provide  for  me ;  but  that  would  be  intoler- 
able to  me." 

Philip  was  silent  a  few  moments,  and  then  said,  in  that 
high,  feeble  voice  which  with  him  indicated  the  resolute  sup- 
pression of  emotion,  — 

"  Is  there  no  other  alternative,  Maggie  ?  Is  that  life,  away 
from  those  who  love  you,  the  only  one  you  will  allow  yourself 
to  look  forward  to  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Philip,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  pleadingly,  as  if  she 
entreated  him  to  believe  that  she  was  compelled  to  this  course. 
"At  least,  as  things  are  ;  I  don't  know  what  may  be  in  years  to 
come.  But  I  begin  to  think  there  can  never  come  much  hap- 
piness to  me  from  loving;  I  have  always  had  so  much  pain 
mingled  with  it.  I  wish  I  could  make  myself  a  world  outside 
it,  as  men  do." 

"  Now  you  are  returning  to  your  old  thought  in  a  new  form, 
Maggie, — the  thought  I  used  to  combat,"  said  Philip,  with  a 
slight  tinge  of  bitterness.  "  You  want  to  find  out  a  mode  of 
renunciation  that  will  be  an  escape  from  pain.  I  tell  you 
again,  there  is  no  such  escape  possible  except  by  perverting  or 
mutilating  one's  nature.  What  would  become  of  me,  if  I 
tried  to  escape  from  pain  ?  Scorn  and  cynicism  would  be  my 
only  opium ;  unless  I  could  fall  into  some  kind  of  conceited 


THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

madness,  and  fancy  myself  a  favourite  of  Heaven  because  1 
ain  not  a  favourite  with  men." 

The  bitterness  had  taken  on  some  impetuosity  as  Philip 
went  on  speaking ;  the  words  were  evidently  an  outlet  for  sonic 
immediate  feeling  of  his  own,  as  well  as  an  answer  to  Maggie. 
There  was  a  pain  pressing  on  him  at  that  moment.  He  shrank 
with  proud  delicacy  from  the  faintest  allusion  to  the  words  of 
love,  of  plighted  love  that  had  passed  between  them.  It 
would  have  seemed  to  him  like  reminding  Maggie  of  a  promise ; 
it  would  have  had  for  him  something  of  the  baseness  of  com- 
pulsion. He  could  not  dwell  on  the  fact  that  he  himself  had 
not  changed ;  for  that  too  would  have  had  the  air  of  an  appeal. 
His  love  for  Maggie  was  stamped,  even  more  than  the  rest  of 
his  experience,  with  the  exaggerated  sense  that  he  was  an 
exception,  —  that  she,  that  every  one,  saw  him  in  the  light  of 
an  exception. 

But  Maggie  was  conscience-stricken. 

"  Yes,  Philip,"  she  said,  with  her  childish  contrition  when 
he  used  to  chide  her,  "  you  are  right,  I  know.  I  do  always 
think  too  much  of  my  own  feelings,  and  not  enough  of 
others',  — not  enough  of  yours.  I  had  need  have  you  always 
to  find  fault  with  me  and  teach  me  j  so  many  things  have  come 
true  that  you  used  to  tell  me." 

Maggie  was  resting  her  elbow  on  the  table,  leaning  her  head 
on  her  hand  and  looking  at  Philip  with  half-penitent  depend- 
ent affection,  as  she  said  this ;  while  he  was  returning  her 
gaze  with  an  expression  that,  to  her  consciousness,  gradually 
became  less  vague,  —  became  charged  with  a  specific  recollec- 
tion. Had  his  mind  flown  back  to  something  that  she  now 
remembered,  —  something  about  a  lover  of  Lucy's  ?  It  was 
a  thought  that  made  her  shudder ;  it  gave  new  definiteness  to 
her  present  position,  and  to  the  tendency  of  what  had  hap- 
pened the  evening  before.  She  moved  her  arm  from  the  table, 
urged  to  change  her  position  by  that  positive  physical  oppres- 
sion at  the  heart  that  sometimes  accompanies  a  sudden  mental 
pang. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Maggie  ?  Has  something  happened  ?  " 
Philip  said,  in  inexpressible  anxiety,  his  imagination  being 
only  too  ready  to  weave  everything  that  was  fatal  to  them 
both. 

"  No,  nothing,"  said  Maggie,  rousing  her  latent  will.  Philip 
must  not  have  that  odious  thought  in  his  mind;  she  would 
banish  it  from  her  own.  "  Nothing,"  she  repeated,  "  except 
in  my  own  mind.  You  used  to  say  I  should  feel  the  effect 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  383 

of  my  starved  life,  as  you  called  it ;  and  I  do.  I  am  too  eager 
in  my  enjoyment  of  music  and  all  luxuries,  now  they  are 
come  to  me." 

She  took  up  her  work  and  occupied  herself  resolutely,  while 
Philip  watched  her,  really  in  doubt  whether  she  had  anything 
more  than  this  general  allusion  in  her  mind.  It  was  quite  in 
Maggie's  character  to  be  agitated  by  vague  self-reproach.  But 
soon  there  came  a  violent  well-known  ring  at  the  door-bell 
resounding  through  the  house. 

"  Oh,  what  a  startling  announcement ! "  said  Maggie,  quite 
mistress  of  herself,  though  not  without  some  inward  nutter, 
"I  wonder  where  Lucy  is." 

Lucy  had  not  been  deaf  to  the  signal,  and  after  an  interval 
long  enough  for  a  few  solicitous  but  not  hurried  inquiries,  she 
herself  ushered  Stephen  in. 

"  Well,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  going  straight  up  to  Philip  and 
shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  bowing  to  Maggie  in  pass- 
ing, "  it 's  glorious  to  have  you  back  again ;  only  I  wish  you  'd 
conduct  yourself  a  little  less  like  a  sparrow  with  a  residence 
on  the  house-top,  and  not  go  in  and  out  constantly  without 
letting  the  servants  know.  This  is  about  the  twentieth  time 
I  've  had  to  scamper  up  those  countless  stairs  to  that  painting- 
room  of  yours,  all  to  no  purpose,  because  your  people  thought 
you  were  at  home.  Such  incidents  embitter  friendship." 

"  I  've  so  few  visitors,  it  seems  hardly  worth  while  to  leave 
notice  of  my  exit  and  entrances,"  said  Philip,  feeling  rather 
oppressed  just  then  by  Stephen's  bright  strong  presence  and 
strong  voice. 

"  Are  you  quite  well  this  morning,  Miss  Tulliver  ? "  said 
Stephen,  turning  to  Maggie  with  stiff  politeness,  and  putting 
out  his  hand  with  the  air  of  fulfilling  a  social  duty. 

Maggie  gave  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  said,  "  Quite  well, 
thank  you,"  in  a  tone  of  proud  indifference.  Philip's  eyes 
were  watching  them  keenly ;  but  Lucy  was  used  to  seeing 
variations  in  their  manner  to  each  other,  and  only  thought 
with  regret  that  there  was  some  natural  antipathy  which  every 
now  and  then  surmounted  their  mutual  good-will.  "  Maggie 
is  not  the  sort  of  woman  Stephen  admires,  and  she  is  irritated 
by  something  in  him  which  she  interprets  as  conceit,"  was  the 
silent  observation  that  accounted  for  everything  to  guileless 
Lucy.  Stephen  and  Maggie  had  no  sooner  completed  this 
studied  greeting  than  each  felt  hurt  by  the  other's  coldness. 
And  Stephen,  while  rattling  on  in  questions  to  Philip  about 
his  recent  sketching  expedition,  was  thinking  all  the  more 


384  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

about  Maggie  because  he  was  not  drawing  her  into  the  com  <  i- 
sation  as  he  had  invariably  done  before.  "  Maggie  and  Philip 
are  not  looking  happy,"  thought  Lucy ;  "  this  first  interview 
has  been  saddening  to  them." 

"I  think  we  people  who  have  not  been  galloping,"  she  said 
to  Stephen,  "  are  all  a  little  damped  by  the  rain.  Let  us  have 
some  music.  We  ought  to  take  advantage  of  having  Philip 
and  you  together.  Give  us  the  duet  in  '  Masaniello ; '  Maggie 
has  not  heard  that,  and  I  know  it  will  suit  her." 

"  Come,  then,"  said  Stephen,  going  towards  the  piano,  and 
giving  a  foretaste  of  the  tune  in  his  deep  "  brum-bruin,"  very 
pleasant  to  hear. 

"You,  please,  Philip,  —  you  play  the  accompaniment,"  said 
Lucy,  "  and  then  I  can  go  on  with  my  work.  You  will  like  to 
play,  sha'n't  you  ?  "  she  added,  with  a  pretty,  inquiring  look, 
anxious,  as  usual,  lest  she  should  have  proposed  what  was  not 
pleasant  to  another ;  but  with  yearnings  towards  her  unfin- 
ished embroidery. 

Philip  had  brightened  at  the  proposition,  for  there  is  no 
feeling,  perhaps,  except  the  extremes  of  fear  and  grief,  that 
does  not  find  relief  in  music,  —  that  does  not  make  a  man 
sing  or  play  the  better ;  and  Philip  had  an  abundance  of  pent- 
up  feeling  at  this  moment,  as  complex  as  any  trio  or  quartet 
that  was  ever  meant  to  express  love  and  jealousy  and  resig- 
nation and  fierce  suspicion,  all  at  the  same  time. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  seating  himself  at  the  piano,  "  it  is 
a  way  of  eking  out  one 's  imperfect  life  and  being  three 
people  at  once,  —  to  sing  and  make  the  piano  sing,  and  hear 
them  both  all  the  while,  —  or  else  to  sing  and  paint." 

"Ah,  there  you  are  an  enviable  fellow.  I  can  do  nothing 
with  niy  hands,"  said  Stephen.  "That  has  generally  been 
observed  in  men  of  great  administrative  capacity,  I  believe, — 
a  tendency  to  predominance  of  the  reflective  powers  in  me  ! 
Have  n't  you  observed  that,  Miss  Tulliver  ?  " 

Stephen  had  fallen  by  mistake  into  his  habit  of  playful 
appeal  to  Maggie,  and  she  could  not  repress  the  answering 
flush  and  epigram. 

"  I  have  observed  a  tendency  to  predominance,"  she  said, 
smiling;  and  Philip  at  that  moment  devoutly  hoped  that 
she  found  the  tendency  disagreeable. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Lucy ;  "  music,  music !  We  will  discuss 
each  other's  qualities  another  time." 

Maggie  always  tried  in  vain  to  go  on  with  her  work  when 
music  began.  She  tried  harder  than  ever  to-day ;  for  the 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  385 

thought  that  Stephen  knew  how  much  she  cared  for  his 
singing  was  one  that  no  longer  roused  a  merely  playful 
resistance ;  and  she  knew,  too,  that  it  was  his  habit  always 
to  stand  so  that  he  could  look  at  her.  But  it  was  of  no 
use  ;  she  soon  threw  her  work  down,  and  all  her  intentions 
were  lost  in  the  vague  state  of  emotion  produced  by  the 
inspiring  duet,  —  emotion  that  seemed  to  make  her  at  once 
strong  and  weak ;  strong  for  all  enjoyment,  weak  for  all 
resistance.  When  the  strain  passed  into  the  minor,  she 
half  started  from  her  seat  with  the  sudden  thrill  of  that 
change.  Poor  Maggie  !  She  looked  very  beautiful  when 
her  soul  was  being  played  on  in  this  way  by  the  inexorable 
power  of  sound.  You  might  have  seen  the  slightest  percep- 
tible quivering  through  her  whole  frame  as  she  leaned  a 
little  forward,  clasping  her  hands  as  if  to  steady  herself ; 
while  her  eyes  dilated  and  brightened  into  that  wide-open, 
childish  expression  of  wondering  delight  which  always  came 
back  in  her  happiest  moments.  Lucy,  who  at  other  times 
had  always  been  at  the  piano  when  Maggie  was  looking 
in  this  way,  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  steal  up  to  her 
and  kiss  her.  Philip,  too,  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  now  and 
then  round  the  open  book  on  the  desk,  and  felt  that  he 
had  never  before  seen  her  under  so  strong  an  influence. 

"  More,  more  !  "  said  Lucy,  when  the  duet  had  been  encored. 
"  Something  spirited  again.  Maggie  always  says  she  likes  a 
great  rush  of  sound." 

"It  must  be  'Let  us  take  the  road,'  then,"  said  Stephen, 
—  "  so  suitable  for  a  wet  morning.  But  are  you  prepared  to 
abandon  the  most  sacred  duties  of  life,  and  come  and  sing 
with  us  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Lucy,  laughing.  "  If  you  will  look  out  the 
' Beggar's  Opera'  from  the  large  canterbury.  It  has  a  dingy 
cover." 

"That  is  a  great  clue,  considering  there  are  about  a  score 
covers  here  of  rival  dinginess,"  said  Stephen,  drawing  out 
the  canterbury. 

"  Oh,  play  something  the  while,  Philip,"  said  Lucy,  noticing 
that  his  fingers  were  wandering  over  the  keys.  "  What  is 
that  you  are  falling  into  ?  —  something  delicious  that  I  don't 
know." 

"Don't  you  know  that?"  said  Philip,  bringing  out  the 
tune  more  definitely.  "  It  's  from  the  '  Somnambula  '  — 
'Ah!  perche  non  posso  odiarti.'  I  don't  know  the  opera,  but 
it  appears  the  tenor  is  telling  the  heroine  that  he  shall  always 

25 


386  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

love  her  thcmgh  she  may  forsake  him.  You  've  heard  me 
sin'.,'  it  to  the  English  words,  '  I  love  thee  still.' " 

It  was  not  quite  unintentionally  that  Philip  had  wandered 
into  this  song,  which  might  be  an  indirect  expression  to 
Maggie  of  what  he  could  not  prevail  on  himself  to  say  to 
her  directly.  Her  ears  had  been  open  to  what  he  was  say- 
ing, and  when  he  began  to  sing,  she  understood  the  plaintive 
passion  of  the  music.  That  pleading  tenor  had  no  very  fine 
qualities  as  a  voice,  but  it  was  not  quite  new  to  her ;  it  had 
sung  to  her  by  snatches,  in  a  subdued  way,  among  the  grassy 
walks  and  hollows,  and  underneath  the  leaning  ash-tree  in  the 
Red  Deeps.  There  seemed  to  be  some  reproach  in  the  words  ; 
did  Philip  mean  that  ?  She  wished  she  had  assured  him  more 
distinctly  in  their  conversation  that  she  desired  not  to  renew 
the  hope  of  love  between  them,  only  because  it  clashed  with 
her  inevitable  circumstances.  She  was  touched,  not  thrilled 
by  the  song ;  it  suggested  distinct  memories  and  thoughts, 
and  brought  quiet  regret  in  the  place  of  excitement. 

•'<  That 's  the  way  with  you  tenors,"  said  Stephen,  who  was 
waiting  with  music  in  his  hand  while  Philip  finished  the  song. 
"You  demoralise  the  fair  sex  by  warbling  your  sentimental 
love  and  constancy  under  all  sorts  of  vile  treatment.  Nothing 
short  of  having  your  heads  served  up  in  a  dish  like  that  me- 
diaeval tenor  or  troubadour,  would  prevent  you  from  expressing 
your  entire  resignation.  I  must  administer  an  antidote,  while 
Miss  Deane  prepares  to  tear  herself  away  from  her  bobbins." 

Stephen  rolled  out,  with  saucy  energy,  — 

"  Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman  's  fair  ?  " 

and  seemed  to  make  all  the  air  in  the  room  alive  with  a  new 
influence.  Lucy,  always  proud  of  what  Stephen  did,  went 
towards  the  piano  with  laughing,  admiring  looks  at  him  ;  and 
Maggie,  in  spite  of  her  resistance  to  the  spirit  of  the  song 
and  to  the  singer,  was  taken  hold  of  and  shaken  by  the  invis- 
ible influence,  —  was  borne  along  by  a  wave  too  strong  for  her. 

But,  angrily  resolved  not  to  betray  herself,  she  seized  her 
work,  and  went  on  making  false  stitches  and  pricking  her 
fingers  with  much  perseverance,  not  looking  up  or  taking 
notice  of  what  was  going  forward,  until  all  the  three  voices 
united  in  "  Let  us  take  the  road." 

I  am  afraid  there  would  have  been  a  subtle,  stealing  grati- 
fication in  her  mind  if  she  had  known  how  entirely  this  saucy, 
defiant  Stephen  was  occupied  with  her ;  how  he  was  passing 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  387 

rapidly  from  a  determination  to  treat  her  with  ostentatious  in- 
difference to  an  irritating  desire  for  some  sign  of  inclination 
from  her,  —  some  interchange  of  subdued  word  or  look  with 
her.  It  was  not  long  before  he  found  an  opportunity,  when 
they  had  passed  to  the  music  of  "  The  Tempest."  Maggie, 
feeling  the  need  of  a  footstool,  was  walking  across  the  room 
to  get  one,  when  Stephen,  who  was  not  singing  just  then,  and 
was  conscious  of  all  her  movements,  guessed  her  want,  and 
Hew  to  anticipate  her,  lifting  the  footstool  with  an  entreating 
look  at  her,  which  made  it  impossible  not  to  return  a  glance  of 
gratitude.  And  then,  to  have  the  footstool  placed  carefully  by 
a  too  self-confident  personage,  —  not  any  self-confident  person- 
age, but  one  in  particular,  who  suddenly  looks  humble  and 
anxious,  and  lingers,  bending  still,  to  ask  if  there  is  not  some 
draught  in  that  position  between  the  window  and  the  fireplace, 
and  if  he  may  not  be  allowed  to  move  the  work-table  for  her,  — 
these  things  will  summon  a  little  of  the  too  ready,  traitorous 
tenderness  into  a  woman's  eyes,  compelled  as  she  is  in  her 
girlish  time  to  learn  her  life-lessons  in  very  trivial  language. 
And  to  Maggie  such  things  had  not  been  every-day  incidents, 
but  were  a  new  element  in  her  life,  and  found  her  keen  ap- 
petite for  homage  quite  fresh.  That  tone  of  gentle  solicitude 
obliged  her  to  look  at  the  face  that  was  bent  towards  her,  and 
to  say,  "  No,  thank  you ;  "  and  nothing  could  prevent  that 
mutual  glance  from  being  delicious  to  both,  as  it  had  been  the 
evening  before. 

It  was  but  an  ordinary  act  of  politeness  in  Stephen ;  it  had 
hardly  taken  two  minutes  ;  and  Lucy,  who  was  singing,  scarcely 
noticed  it.  But  to  Philip's  mind,  filled  already  with  a  vague 
anxiety  that  was  likely  to  find  a  definite  ground  for  itself  in 
any  trivial  incident,  this  sudden  eagerness  in  Stephen,  and  the 
change  in  Maggie's  face,  which  was  plainly  reflecting  a  beam 
from  his,  seemed  so  strong  a  contrast  with  the  previous  over- 
wrought signs  of  indifference,  as  to  be  charged  with  painful 
meaning.  Stephen's  voice,  pouring  in  again,  jarred  upon  his 
nervous  susceptibility  as  if  it  had  been  the  clang  of  sheet-iron, 
and  he  felt  inclined  to  make  the  piano  shriek  in  utter  discord. 
He  had  really  seen  no  communicable  ground  for  suspecting 
any  unusual  feeling  between  Stephen  and  Maggie;  his  own 
reason  told  him  so,  and  he  wanted  to  go  home  at  once  that  he 
might  reflect  coolly  on  these  false  images,  till  he  had  convinced 
himself  of  their  nullity.  But  then,  again,  he  wanted  to  stay  as 
long  ixs  Stephen  stayed,  —  always  to  be  present  when  Stephen 
was  present  with  Maggie.  It  seemed  to  poor  Philip  so  natural, 


388  THE   MILL    ON    THE   FLUSH. 

nay,  inevitable,  that  any  man  who  was  near  Maggie  should  fall 
in  love  with  her !  There  was  no  promise  oi  happiness  for  her 
if  she  were  beguiled  into  loving  Stephen  Guest;  and  this 
thought  emboldened  Philip  to  view  his  own  love  for  her  in 
the  light  of  a  less  unequal  offering.  He  was  beginning  to  play 
very  falsely  under  this  deafening  inward  tumult,  and  Lucy 
was  looking  at  him  in  astonishment,  when  Mrs.  Tulliver's  en- 
tranee  to  summon  them  to  lunch  came  as  an  excuse  for  ab- 
ruptly breaking  off  the  music. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Philip !  "  said  Mr.  Deane,  when  they  entered  the 
dining-room,  "I've  not  seen  you  for  a  long  while.  Vour 
father's  not  at  home,  I  think,  is  he  ?  I  went  after  him  to  the 
otfice  the  other  day,  and  they  said  ho  was  out  of  town." 

"  He  's  been  to  Mudport  on  business  for  several  days,"  said 
Philip  ;  "  but  he 's  come  back  now." 

"  As  fond  of  his  farming  hobby  as  ever,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  Philip,  rather  wondering  at  this  sudden 
interest  in  his  father's  pursuits. 

"  Ah ! "  said  Mr.  Deane,  "  he 's  got  some  land  in  his  own 
hands  on  this  side  the  river  as  well  as  the  other,  I  think  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  has." 

"  Ah ! "  continued  Mr.  Deane,  as  he  dispensed  the  pigeon- 
pie,  "  he  must  find  farming  a  heavy  item,  —  an  expensive 
hobby.  I  never  had  a  hobby  myself,  never  would  give  in 
to  that.  And  the  worst  of  all  hobbies  are  those  that  people 
think  they  can  get  money  at.  They  shoot  their  money  down 
like  corn  out  of  a  sack  then." 

Lucy  felt  a  little  nervous  under  her  father's  apparently 
gratuitous  criticism  of  Mr.  Wakem's  expenditure.  But  it 
ceased  there,  and  Mr.  Deane  became  unusually  silent  ;m<l 
meditative  during  his  luncheon.  Lucy,  accustomed  to  watch 
all  indications  in  her  father,  arid  having  reasons,  which  had 
recently  become  strong,  for  an  extra  interest  in  what  referred 
to  the  Wakems,  felt  an  unusual  curiosity  to  know  what  had 
prompted  her  father's  questions.  His  subsequent  silence  mad'1 
her  suspect  there  had  been  some  special  reason  for  them  in  hi:, 
mind. 

With  this  idea  in  her  head,  she  resorted  to  her  usual  plan 
when  she  wanted  to  tell  or  ask  her  father  anything  particular : 
she  found  a  reason  for  her  aunt  Tulliver  to  leave  the  dining- 
room  after  dinner,  and  seated  herself  on  a  small  stool  at  her 
father's  knee.  Mr.  Deane,  under  those  circumstances,  con- 
sidered that  he  tasted  some  of  the  most  agreeable  moments 
his  merits  had  purchased  him  in  life,  notwithstanding  that 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  389 

Lucy,  disliking  to  have  her  hair  powdered  with  snuff,  usually 
began  by  mastering  his  snuff-box  on  such  occasions. 

"  You  don't  want  to  go  to  sleep  yet,  papa,  do  you  ? "  she 
said,  as  she  brought  up  her  stool  and  opened  the  large  fingers 
that  clutched  the  snuff-box. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  glancing  at  the  reward  of  merit 
in  the  decanter.  "  But  what  do  you  want  ?  "  he  added,  pinch- 
ing the  dimpled  chin  fondly,  —  "  to  coax  some  more  sovereigns 
out  of  my  pocket  for  your  bazaar  ?  Eh  ?  " 

"  No,  I  have  no  base  motives  at  all  to-day.  I  only  want  to 
talk,  not  to  beg.  I  want  to  know  what  made  you  ask  Philip 
Wakem  about  his  father's  farming  to-day,  papa  ?  It  seemed 
rather  odd,  because  you  never  hardly  say  anything  to  him 
about  his  father ;  and  why  should  you  care  about  Mr.  Wakem's 
losing  money  by  his  hobby  ?  " 

"  Something  to  do  with  business,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  waving 
his  hands,  as  if  to  repel  intrusion  into  that  mystery. 

"  But,  papa,  you  always  say  Mr.  Wakem  has  brought  Philip 
up  like  a  girl;  how  came  you  to  think  you  should  get  any 
business  knowledge  out  of  him  ?  Those  abrupt  questions 
sounded  rather  oddly.  Philip  thought  them  queer." 

"  Nonsense,  child ! "  said  Mr.  Deane,  willing  to  justify  his 
social  demeanour,  with  which  he  had  taken  some  pains  in  his 
upward  progress.  "  There  's  a  report  that  Wakem's  mill  and 
farm  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  —  Dorlcote  Mill,  your  xmcle 
Tulliver's,  you  know  —  is  n't  answering  so  well  as  it  did.  I 
wanted  to  see  if  your  friend  Philip  would  let  anything  out 
about  his  father's  being  tired  of  farming." 

"  Why  ?  Would  you  buy  the  mill,  papa,  if  he  Tvould  part 
with  it  ?  "  said  Lucy,  eagerly.  "  Oh,  tell  me  everything ; 
here,  you  shall  have  your  snuff-box  if  you  '11  tell  me.  Because 
Maggie  says  all  their  hearts  are  set  on  Tom's  getting  back  the 
mill  some  time.  It  was  one  of  the  last  things  her  father  said 
to  Tom,  that  he  must  get  back  the  mill." 

"  Hush,  you  little  puss,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  availing  himself 
of  the  restored  snuff-box.  "  You  must  not  say  a  word  about 
this  thing ;  do  you  hear  ?  There 's  very  little  chance  of  their 
getting  the  mill,  or  of  anybody's  getting  it  out  of  Wakem's 
hands.  And  if  he  knew  that  we  wanted  it  with  a  view  to 
the  Tullivers'  getting  it  again,  he  'd  be  the  less  likely  to  part 
with  it.  It 's  natural,  after  what  happened.  He  behaved  well 
enough  to  Tulliver  before ;  but  a  horsewhipping  is  not  likely 
to  be  paid  for  with  sugar-plums." 

"Now,  papa,"   said  Lucy,   with   a  little  air  of   solemnity, 


390  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  will  you  trust  me  ?  You  must  not  ask  me  all  my  reasons 
for  what  I'm  going  to  say,  but  I  have  very  strong  reasons. 
And  I  'm  very  cautious ;  I  am,  indeed." 

"  Well,  let  us  hear." 

"  Why,  I  believe,  if  you  will  let  me  take  Philip  Wakem  into 
our  confidence,  —  let  me  tell  him  all  about  your  wish  to  buy, 
and  what  it's  for;  that  my  cousins  wish  to  have  it,  and  why 
they  wish  to  have  it,  —  I  believe  Philip  would  help  to  bring  it 
about.  I  know  he  would  desire  to  do  it." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  can  be,  child,"  said  Mr.  Deane,  look- 
ing puzzled.  "Why  should  he  care?"  —  then,  with  a  sud- 
den penetrating  look  at  his  daughter,  "You  don't  think  the 
poor  lad 's  fond  of  you,  and  so  you  can  make  him  do  what 
you  like  ?  "  (Mr.  Deane  felt  quite  safe  about  his  daughter's 
affections.) 

"  ISTo,  papa ;  he  cares  very  little  about  me,  —  not  so  much  as 
I  care  about  him.  But  I  have  a  reason  for  being  quite  sure  of 
what  I  say.  Don't  you  ask  me.  And  if  you  ever  guess,  don't 
tell  me.  Only  give  me  leave  to  do  as  I  think  fit  about  it." 

Lucy  rose  from  her  stool  to  seat  herself  on  her  father's  knee, 
and  kissed  him  with  that  last  request. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  won't  do  mischief,  now  ?  "  he  said,  look- 
ing at  her  with  delight. 

"  Yes,  papa,  quite  sure.  I  'm  very  wise  ;  I  've  got  all  your 
business  talents.  Did  n't  you  admire  my  accompt-book,  now, 
when  I  showed  it  you?" 

"  Well,  well,  if  this  youngster  will  keep  his  counsel,  there 
won't  be  much  harm  done.  And  to  tell  the  truth,  I  think 
there 's  not  much  chance  for  us  any  other  way.  Now,  let  me 
go  off  to  sleep." 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

WAKEM    IN    A   NEW   LIGHT. 


BEFORE  three  days  had  passed  after  the  conversation  you 
have  just  overheard  between  Lucy  and  her  father,  she  had 
contrived  to  have  a  private  interview  with  Philip  during  a 
visit  of  Maggie's  to  her  aunt  Glegg.  For  a  day  and  a  night 
Philip  turned  over  in  his  mind  with  restless  agitation  all  that 
Lucy  had  told  him  in  that  interview,  till  he  had  thoroughly 


THE    ORE  AT    TEMPTATION.  391 

resolved  on  a  course  of  action.  He  thought  he  saw  before  him 
now  a  possibility  of  altering  his  position  with  respect  to  Mag- 
gie, and  removing  at  least  one  obstacle  between  them.  He 
laid  his  plan  and  calculated  all  his  moves  with  the  fervid 
deliberation  of  a  chess-player  in  the  days  of  his  first  ardour, 
and  was.  amazed  himself  at  his  sudden  genius  as  a  tactician. 
His  plan  was  as  bold  as  it  was  thoroughly  calculated.  Having 
watched  for  a  moment  when  his  father  had  nothing  more 
argent  on  his  hands  than  the  newspaper,  he  went  behind  him, 
laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said,  — 

"  Father,  will  you  come  up  into  my  sanctum,  and  look  at  my 
new  sketches  ?  I  've  arranged  them  now." 

"  I  'in  getting  terribly  stiff  in  the  joints,  Phil,  for  climbing 
those  stairs  of  yours,;"  said  Wakem,  looking  kindly  at  his  son 
as  he  laid  down  his  paper.  "But  come  along,  then." 

"  This  is  a  nice  place  for  you,  is  n't  it,  Phil  ?  —  a  capital 
light  that  from  the  roof,  eh  ?  "  was,  as  usual,  the  first  thing  he 
said  on  entering  the  painting-room.  He  liked  to  remind  him- 
self and  his  son  too  that  his  fatherly  indulgence  had  provided 
the  accommodation.  He  had  been  a  good  father.  Emily 
would  have  nothing  to  reproach  him  with  there,  if  she  came 
back  again  from  her  grave. 

"Come,  come,"  he  said,  putting  his  double  eye-glass  over 
his  nose,  and  seating  himself  to  take  a  general  view  while  he 
rested,  "  you  've  got  a  famous  show  here.  Upon  my  word, 
I  don't  see  that  your  things  are  n't  as  good  as  that  London 
artist's  —  what 's  his  name  —  that  Ley  burn  gave  so  much  money 
for." 

Philip  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  He  had  seated  himself 
on  his  painting-stool,  and  had  taken  a  lead  pencil  in  his  hand, 
with  which  he  was  making  strong  marks  to  counteract  the 
sense  of  tremulousness.  He  watched  his  father  get  up,  and 
walk  slowly  round,  good-naturedly  dwelling  on  the  pictures 
much  longer  than  his  amount  of  genuine  taste  for  landscape 
would  have  prompted,  till  he  stopped  before  a  stand  on  which 
two  pictures  were  placed,  —  one  much  larger  than  the  other, 
the  smaller  one  in  a  leather  case. 

"  Bless  me !  what  have  you  here  ? "  said  Wakem,  startled 
by  a  sudden  transition  from  landscape  to  portrait.  "  I  thought 
you  'd  left  off  figures.  Who  are  these  ?  " 

"  They  are  the  same  person,"  said  Philip,  with  calm  prompt- 
ness, "at  different  ages." 

"  And  what  person  ?  "  said  Wakem,  sharply  fixing  his  eyes 
with  a  growing  look  of  suspicion  on  the  larger  picture. 


392  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOS*. 

"  Miss  Tulliver.  The  small  one  is  something  like  what  she 
was  when  I  was  at  school  with  her  brother  at  King's  Lorton ; 
the  larger  one  is  not  quite  so  good  a  likeness  of  what  she  was 
\vln-n  I  came  from  abroad.'' 

\Vakem  turned  round  fiercely,  with  a  flushed  face,  letting 
his  eye-glass  fall,  and  looking  at  his  son  with  a  savage  expres- 
sion for  a  moment,  as  if  he  was  ready  to  strike  that  daring 
feebleness  from  the  stool.  But  he  threw  himself  into  the  arm- 
chair again,  and  thrust  his  hands  into  his  trouser-pockets,  still 
looking  angrily  at  his  son,  however.  Philip  did  not  return  the 
look,  but  sat  quietly  watching  the  point  of  his  pencil. 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say,  then,  that  you  have  had  any 
acquaintance  with  her  since  you  came  from  abroad  ? "  said 
Wakem,  at  last,  with  that  vain  effort  which  rage  always  makes 
to  throw  as  much  punishment  as  it  desires  to  inflict  into  words 
and  tones,  since  blows  are  forbidden. 

"  Yes ;  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  her  for  a  whole  year  before 
her  father's  death.  We  met  often  in  that  thicket  —  the  Red 
Deeps  —  near  Dorlcote  Mill.  I  love  her  dearly  j  I  shall  m-vcr 
love  any  other  woman.  I  have  thought  of  her  ever  since  she 
was  a  little  girl." 

"  Go  on,  sir !  And  you  have  corresponded  with  her  all  this 
while  ?  " 

"No.  I  never  told  her  I  loved  her  till  just  before  we 
parted,  and  she  promised  her  brother  not  to  see  me  again  or  to 
correspond  with  me.  I  am  not  sure  that  she  loves  me  or  would 
consent  to  marry  me.  But  if  she  would  consent,  —  if  she  did 
love  me  well  enough,  —  I  should  marry  her." 

"  And  this  is  the  return  you  make  me  for  all  the  indulgences 
I  've  heaped  on  you  ?  "  said  Wakem,  getting  white,  and  begin- 
ning to  tremble  under  an  enraged  sense  of  impotence  before 
Philip's  calm  defiance  and  concentration  of  purpose. 

"  No,  father,"  said  Philip,  looking  up  at  him  for  the  first 
time ;  "  I  don't  regard  it  as  a  return.  You  have  been  an  indul- 
gent father  to  me ;  but  I  have  always  felt  that  it  was  because 
you  had  an  affectionate  wish  to  give  me  as  much  happiness  as 
my  unfortunate  lot  would  admit  of,  not  that  it  was  a  debt 
you  expected  me  to  pay  by  sacrificing  all  my  chances  of  happi- 
ness to  satisfy  feelings  of  yours  which  I  can  never  share." 

"  I  think  most  sons  would  share  their  father's  feelings  in 
this  case,"  said  Wakem,  bitterly.  "  The  girl's  father  was  an 
ignorant  mad  brute,  who  was  within  an  inch  of  murdering  me. 
The  whole  town  knows  it.  And  the  brother  is  just  as  inso- 
lent, only  in  a  cooler  way.  He  forbade  her  seeing  you,  you 


THE  GREAT   TEMPTATION.  393 

say ;  he  '11  break  every  bone  in  your  body,  for  your  greater 
happiness,  if  you  don't  take  care.  But  you  seem  to  have  made 
up  your  mind ;  you  have  counted  the  consequences,  I  suppose. 
Of  course  you  are  independent  of  me  ;  you  can  marry  this  girl 
to-morrow,  if  you  like ;  you  are  a  man  of  five-and-twenty,  —  you 
can  go  your  way,  and  I  can  go  mine.  We  need  have  no  more 
to  do  with  each  other." 

Wakem  rose  and  walked  towards  the  door,  but  something 
held  him  back,  and  instead  of  leaving  the  room,  he  walked  up 
and  down  it.  Philip  was  slow  to  reply,  and  when  he  spoke, 
his  tone  had  a  more  incisive  quietness  and  clearness  than 
ever. 

"  No ;  I  can't  marry  Miss  Tulliver,  even  if  she  would  have 
me,  if  I  have  only  my  own  resources  to  maintain  her  with. 
I  have  been  brought  up  to  no  profession.  I  can't  offer  her 
poverty  as  well  as  deformity." 

"Ah,  there  is  a  reason  for  your  clinging  to  me,  doubtless," 
said  Wakem,  still  bitterly,  though  Philip's  last  words  had 
given  him  a  pang ;  they  had  stirred  a  feeling  which  had  been 
a  habit  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  He  threw  himself  into 
the  chair  again. 

"  I  expected  all  this,"  said  Philip.  "  I  know  these  scenes 
are  often  happening  between  father  and  son.  If  I  were  like 
other  men  of  my  age,  I  might  answer  your  angry  words  by 
still  angrier;  we  might  part;  I  should  marry  the  woman  I 
love,  and  have  a  chance  of  being  as  happy  as  the  rest.  But 
if  it  will  be  a  satisfaction  to  you  to  annihilate  the  very  object 
of  everything  you  've  done  for  me,  you  have  an  advantage  over 
most  fathers ;  you  can  completely  deprive  me  of  the  only 
thing  that  would  make  my  life  worth  having." 

Philip  paused,  but  his  father  was  silent. 

"  You  know  best  what  satisfaction  you  would  have,  beyond 
that  of  gratifying  a  ridiculous  rancour  worthy  only  of  wan- 
dering savages." 

"  Ridiculous  rancour  ! "  Wakem  burst  out.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  Damn  it !  is  a  man  to  be  horsewhipped  by  a  boor 
and  love  him  for  it  ?  Besides,  there  's  that  cold,  proud  devil 
of  a  son,  who  said  a  word  to  me  I  shall  not  forget  when  we 
had  the  settling.  He  would  be  as  pleasant  a  mark  for  a 
bullet  as  I  know,  if  he  were  worth  the  expense." 

"  I  don't  mean  your  resentment  towards  them,"  said  Philip, 
who  had  his  reasons  for  some  sympathy  with  this  view  of  Tom, 
"  though  a  feeling  of  revenge  is  not  worth  much,  that  you 
should  care  to  keep  it.  I  mean  your  extending  the  enmity 


894  THE  MILL    ON   THE  FLOSS. 

to  a  helpless  girl,  who  has  too  much  sense  and  goodness  to 
share  their  narrow  prejudices.  She  has  never  entered  into 
the  i'amily  quarrels." 

"  What  does  that  signify  ?  We  don't  ask  what  a  woman 
does  ;  we  ask  whom  she  belongs  to.  It 's  altogether  a  degrad- 
ing thing  to  you,  to  think  of  marrying  old  Tulliver's  daughter." 

For  the  first  time  in  the  dialogue,  Philip  lost  some  of  his 
self-control,  and  coloured  with  anger. 

"Miss  Tulliver,"  he  said,  with  bitter  incisiveness,  "has 
the  only  grounds  of  rank  that  anything  but  vulgar  folly  can 
suppose  to  belong  to  the  middle  class;  she  is  thoroughly 
refilled,  and  her  friends,  whatever  else  they  may  be,  are 
respected  for  irreproachable  honour  and  integrity.  All  St. 
Ogg's,  I  fancy,  would  pronounce  her  to  be  more  than  my 
equal." 

Wakem  darted  a  glance  of  fierce  question  at  his  son ;  but 
Philip  was  not  looking  at  him,  and  with  a  certain  penitent 
consciousness  went  on,  in  a  few  moments,  as  if  in  amplifica- 
tion of  his  last  words,  — 

"Find  a  single  person  in  St.  Ogg's  who  will  not  tell  you 
that  a  beautiful  creature  like  her  would  be  throwing  herself 
away  on  a  pitiable  object  like  me." 

"  Not  she ! "  said  Wakem,  rising  again,  and  forgetting 
everything  else  in  a  burst  of  resentful  pride,  half  fatherly, 
half  personal.  "It  would  be  a  deuced  fine  match  for  her. 
It 's  all  stuff  about  an  accidental  deformity,  when  a  girl 's 
really  attached  to  a  man." 

"  But  girls  are  not  apt  to  get  attached  under  those  circum- 
stances," said  Philip. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Wakem,  rather  brutally,  trying  to  recover 
his  previous  position,  "  if  she  does  n't  care  for  you,  you  might 
have  spared  yourself  the  trouble  of  talking  to  me  about  her, 
and  you  might  have  spared  me  the  trouble  of  refusing  my 
consent  to  what  was  never  likely  to  happen." 

Wakem  strode  to  the  door,  and  without  looking  round 
igain,  banged  it  after  him. 

Philip  was  not  without  confidence  that  his  father  would 
be  ultimately  wrought  upon  as  he  had  expected,  by  what  had 
passed ;  but  the  scene  had  jarred  upon  his  nerves,  which  were 
as  sensitive  as  a  woman's.  He  determined  not  to  go  down  to 
dinner;  he  couldn't  meet  his  father  again  that  day.  It  was 
Wakem's  habit,  when  he  had  no  company  at  home,  to  go  out 
in  the  evening,  often  as  early  as  half-past  seven ;  and  as  it 
was  far  on  in  the  afternoon  now,  Philip  locked  up  his  room 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  395 

and  went  out  for  a  long  ramble,  thinking  he  would  not  return 
until  his  father  was  out  of  the  house  again.  He  got  into  a 
boat,  and  went  down  the  river  to  a  favourite  village,  where 
he  dined,  and  lingered  till  it  was  late  enough  for  him  to 
return.  He  had  never  had  any  sort  of  quarrel  with  his 
father  before,  and  had  a  sickening  fear  that  this  contest,  just- 
begun,  might  go  on  for  weeks ;  and  what  might  not  happen  in 
that  time  ?  He  would  not  allow  himself  to  define  what  that 
involuntary  question  meant.  But  if  he  could  once  be  in  tlu 
position  of  Maggie's  accepted,  acknowledged  lover,  thero 
would  be  less  room  for  vague  dread.  He  went  up  to  his 
painting-room  again,  and  threw  himself  with  a  sense  of  fatigue 
into  the  arm-chair,  looking  round  absently  at  the  views  of 
water  and  rock  that  were  ranged  around,  till  he  fell  into  a 
doze,  in  which  he  fancied  Maggie  was  slipping  down  a  glisten- 
ing, green,  slimy  channel  of  a  waterfall,  and  he  was  looking 
on  helpless,  till  he  was  awakened  by  what  seemed  a  sudden, 
awful  crash. 

It  was  the  opneing  of  the  door,  and  he  could  hardly  have 
dozed  more  than  a  few  moments,  for  there  was  no  perceptible 
change  in  the  evening  light.  It  was  his  father  who  entered ; 
and  when  Philip  moved  to  vacate  the  chair  for  him,  he 
said,  — 

"  Sit  still.     I  'd  rather  walk  about." 

He  stalked  up  and  down  the  room  once  or  twice,  and  then, 
standing  opposite  Philip  with  his  hands  thrust  in  his  side 
pockets,  he  said,  as  if  continuing  a  conversation  that  had  not 
been  broken  off,  — 

"But  this  girl  seems  to  have  been  fond  of  you,  Phil,  else 
she  wouldn't  have  met  you  in  that  way." 

Philip's  heart  was  beating  rapidly,  and  a  transient  flush 
passed  over  his  face  like  a  gleam.  It  was  not  quite  easy  to 
speak  at  once. 

"  She  liked  me  at  King's  Lorton,  when  she  was  a  little  girl, 
because  I  used  to  sit  with  her  brother  a  great  deal  when  he 
had  hurt  his  foot.  She  had  kept  that  in  her  memory,  and 
thought  of  me  as  a  friend  of  a  long  while  ago.  She  did  n't 
think  of  me  as  a  lover  when  she  met  me." 

"  Well,  but  you  made  love  to  her  at  last.  What  did  she 
say  then  ?  "  said  Wakem,  walking  about  again. 

"She  said  she  did  love  me  then." 

"  Confound  it,  then ;  what  else  do  you  want  ?    Is  she  a  jilt  ?  " 

"  She  was  very  young  then,"  said  Philip,  hesitatingly. 
•'  I  'm  afraid  she  hardly  knew  what  she  felt.  I  'm  afraid  our 


396  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

long  separation,  and  the  idea  that  events  must  always  divide 
us,  may  have  made  a  difference." 

"  But  she 's  in  the  town.  I  've  seen  her  at  church. 
Have  n't  you  spoken  to  her  since  you  came  back  ? " 

"  Yes,  at  Mr.  Deane's.  But  I  could  n't  renew  my  proposals 
to  her  on  several  grounds.  One  obstacle  would  be  removed 
if  you  would  give  your  consent,  —  if  you  would  be  willing  to 
think  of  her  as  a  daughter-in-law." 

Wakem  was  silent  a  little  while,  pausing  before  Maggie's 
picture. 

"  She 's  not  the  sort  of  woman  your  mother  was,  though, 
Phil,"  he  said,  at  last.  "  I  saw  her  at  church,  —  she 's  hand- 
somer than  this,  —  deuced  fine  eyes  and  fine  figure,  I  saw ; 
but  rather  dangerous  and  unmanageable,  eh  ?  " 

"  She 's  very  tender  and  affectionate,  and  so  simple,  —  with- 
out the  airs  and  petty  contrivances  other  women  have." 

"Ah?"  said  Wakem.  Then  looking  round  at  his  son, 
"  But  your  mother  looked  gentler ;  she  had  that  brown  wavy 
hair  and  grey  eyes,  like  yours.  You  can't  remember  her  very 
well.  It  was  a  thousand  pities  I  'd  no  likeness  of  her." 

"  Then,  should  n't  you  be  glad  for  me  to  have  the  same  sort 
of  happiness,  father,  to  sweeten  my  life  for  me  ?  There  can 
never  be  another  tie  so  strong  to  you  as  that  which  began 
eighty-and-twenty  years  ago,  when  you  married  my  mother, 
and  you  have  been  tightening  it  ever  since." 

"  Ah,  Phil,  you  're  the  only  fellow  that  knows  the  best  of 
me,"  said  Wakem,  giving  his  hand  to  his  son.  "We  must 
keep  together  if  we  can.  And  now,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  You 
must  come  down-stairs  and  tell  me.  Am  I  to  go  and  call  on 
this  dark-eyed  damsel  ?  " 

The  barrier  once  thrown  down  in  this  way,  Philip  could 
talk  freely  to  his  father  of  their  entire  relation  with  the 
Tullivers,  —  of  the  desire  to  get  the  mill  and  land  back  into  the 
family,  and  of  its  transfer  to  Guest  &  Co.  as  an  intermediate 
step.  He  could  venture  now  to  be  persuasive  and  urgent, 
and  his  father  yielded  with  more  readiness  than  he  had  cal- 
culated on. 

"  /  don't  care  about  the  mill,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  sort 
of  angry  compliance.  "  I  've  had  an  infernal  deal  of  bother 
lately  about  the  mill.  Let  them  pay  me  for  my  improve- 
ments, that 's  all.  But  there 's  one  thing  you  need  n't  ask  me. 
I  shall  have  no  direct  transactions  with  young  Tulliver.  If 
you  like  to  swallow  him  for  his  sister's  sake,  you  may ;  but 
I've  no  sauce  that  will  make  him  go  down." 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  397 

I  leave  you  to  imagine  the  agreeable  feelings  with  which 
Philip  went  to  Mr.  Deane  the  next  day,  to  say  that  Mr. 
Wakem  was  ready  to  open  the  negotiations,  and  Lucy's 
pretty  triumph  as  she  appealed  to  her  father  whether  she 
had  not  proved  her  great  business  abilities.  Mr.  Deane  was 
rather  puzzled,  and  suspected  that  there  had  been  something 
"  going  on  "  among  the  young  people  to  which  he  wanted  a  clue. 
But  to  men  of  Mr.  Deane's  stamp,  what  goes  on  among  the 
young  people  is  as  extraneous  to  the  real  business  of  life  as 
what  goes  on  among  the  birds  and  butterflies,  until  it  can  be 
shown  to  have  a  malign  bearing  on  monetary  affairs.  And  in 
this  case  the  bearing  appeared  to  be  entirely  propitious. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CHARITY    IN    FULL-DRESS. 

THE  culmination  of  Maggie's  career  as  an  admired  member 
of  society  in  St.  Ogg's  was  certainly  the  day  of  the  bazaar, 
when  her  simple  noble  beauty,  clad  in  a  white  muslin  of  some 
soft-floating  kind,  which  I  suspect  must  have  come  from  the 
stores  of  aunt  Pullet's  wardrobe,  appeared  with  marked  dis- 
tinction among  the  more  adorned  and  conventional  women 
around  her.  We  perhaps  never  detect  how  much  of  our 
social  demeanour  is  made  up  of  artificial  airs,  until  we  see 
a  person  who  is  at  once  beautiful  and  simple  ;  without  the 
beauty,  we  are  apt  to  call  simplicity  awkwardness.  The  Miss 
Guests  were  much  too  well-bred  to  have  any  of  the  grimaces 
and  affected  tones  that  belong  to  pretentious  vulgarity ;  but 
their  stall  being  next  to  the  one  where  Maggie  sat,  it  seemed 
newly  obvious  to-day  that  Miss  Guest  held  her  chin  too  high, 
and  that  Miss  Laura  spoke  and  moved  continually  with  a  view 
to  effect. 

All  well-dressed  St.  Ogg's  and  its  neighbourhood  were  there  ; 
and  it  would  have  been  worth  while  to  come  even  from  a  dis- 
tance, to  see  the  fine  old  hall,  with  its  open  roof  and  carved 
oaken  rafters,  and  great  oaken  folding-doors,  and  light  shed 
down  from  a  height  on  the  many-coloured  show  beneath  ;  a 
very  quaint  place,  with  broad  faded  stripes  painted  on  the 
walls,  and  here  and  there  a  show  of  heraldic  animals  of  a 


398  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

bristly,  long-snouted  character,  the  cherished  emblems  of  a 
noble  family  once  the  seigniors  of  this  now  civic  hall.  A 
grand  arch,  cut  in  the  upper  wall  at  one  end,  surmounted 
an  oaken  orchestra,  with  an  open  room  behind  it,  where  hot- 
house plants  and  stalls  for  refreshments  were  disposed ;  an 
agreeable  resort  for  gentlemen,  disposed  to  loiter,  and  yet  to 
exchange  the  occasional  crush  down  below  for  a  more  com- 
modious point  of  view.  In  fact,  the  perfect  fitness  of  this 
ancient  building  for  an  admirable  modern  purpose,  that  made 
charity  truly  elegant,  and  led  through  vanity  up  to  the  supply 
of  a  deficit,  was  so  striking  that  hardly  a  person  entered 
the  room  without  exchanging  the  remark  more  than  once. 
Near  the  great  arch  over  the  orchestra  was  the  stone  oriel 
with  painted  glass,  which  was  one  of  the  venerable  incon- 
sistencies of  the  old  hall ;  and  it  was  close  by  this  that  Lucy 
had  her  stall,  for  the  convenience  of  certain  large  plain  arti- 
cles which  she  had  taken  charge  of  for  Mrs.  Kenn.  Maggie 
had  begged  to  sit  at  the  open  end  of  the  stall,  and  to  have  the 
sale  of  these  articles  rather  than  of  bead-mats  and  other  elab- 
orate products,  of  which  she  had  but  a  dim  understanding. 
But  it  soon  appeared  that  the  gentlemen's  dressing-gowns, 
which  were  among  her  commodities,  were  objects  of  such 
general  attention  and  inquiry,  and  excited  so  troublesome  a 
curiosity  as  to  their  lining  and  comparative  merits,  together 
with  a  determination  to  test  them  by  trying  on,  as  to  make 
her  post  a  very  conspicuous  one.  The  ladies  who  had  com- 
modities of  their  own  to  sell,  and  did  not  want  dressing- 
gowns,  saw  at  once  the  frivolity  and  bad  taste  of  this  mas- 
culine preference  for  goods  which  any  tailor  could  furnish ; 
and  it  is  possible  that  the  emphatic  notice  of  various  kinds 
which  was  drawn  towards  Miss  Tulliver  on  this  public  occa- 
sion, threw  a  very  strong  and  unmistakeable  light  on  her  sub- 
sequent conduct  in  many  minds  then  present.  Not  that  anger, 
on  account  of  spurned  beauty  can  dwell  in  the  celestial 
breasts  of  charitable  ladies,  but  rather,  that  the  errors  of 
persons  who  have  once  been  much  admired  necessarily  take 
a  deeper  tinge  from  the  mere  force  of  contrast ;  and  also,  that 
to-day  Maggie's  conspicuous  position,  for  the  first  time,  nun  It- 
evident  certain  characteristics  which  were  subsequently  felt  to 
have  an  explanatory  bearing.  There  was  something  rather 
bold  in  Miss  Tulliver's  direct  gaze,  and  something  undefinably 
coarse  in  the  style  of  her  beauty,  which  placed  her,  in  the 
opinion  of  all  feminine  judges,  far  below  her  cousin  Miss 
Deane  ;  for  the  ladies  of  St.  Ogg's  had  now  completely  ceded 


THE    GREAT   TEMPTATION.  399 

to  Lucy  their  hypothetic  claims  on  the  admiration  of  Mr. 
Stephen  Guest. 

As  for  dear  little  Lucy  herself,  her  late  benevolent  triumph 
about  the  Mill,  and  all  the  affectionate  projects  she  was  cher- 
ishing for  Maggie  and  Philip,  helped  to  give  her  the  highest 
spirits  to-day,  and  she  felt  nothing  but  pleasure  in  the  evi- 
dence of  Maggie's  attractiveness.  It  is  true,  she  was  looking 
very  charming  herself,  and  Stephen  was  paying  her  the  ut- 
most attention  on  this  public  occasion;  jealously  buying  up 
the  articles  he  had  seen  under  her  fingers  in  the  process 
of  making,  and  gaily  helping  her  to  cajole  the  male  cus- 
tomers into  the  purchase  of  the  most  effeminate  futilities. 
He  chose  to  lay  aside  his  hat  and  wear  a  scarlet  fez  of  her 
embroidering ;  but  by  superficial  observers  this  was  necessa- 
rily liable  to  be  interpreted  less  as  a  compliment  to  Lucy  than 
us  a  mark  of  coxcombry.  "  Guest  is  a  great  coxcomb,"  young 
lorry  observed ;  "  but  then  he  is  a  privileged  person  in  St. 
Dgg's  —  he  carries  all  before  him ;  if  another  fellow  did  such 
things,  everybody  would  say  he  made  a  fool  of  himself." 

And  Stephen  purchased  absolutely  nothing  from  Maggie, 
jntil  Lucy  said,  in  rather  a  vexed  vindertone,  — 

"  See,  now ;  all  the  things  of  Maggie's  knitting  will  be 
^one,  and  you  will  not  have  bought  one.  There  are  those  de- 
Uciously  soft  warm  things  for  the  wrists,  —  do  buy  them." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Stephen,  "  they  must  be  intended  for  imagi- 
native persons,  who  can  chill  themselves  on  this  warm  day  by 
thinking  of  the  frosty  Caucasus.  Stern  reason  is  my  forte, 
you  know.  You  must  get  Philip  to  buy  those.  By  the  way, 
why  does  n't  he  come  ?  " 

"  He  never  likes  going  where  there  are  many  people,  though 
I  enjoined  him  to  come.  He  said  he  would  buy  up  any  of  my 
goods  that  the  rest  of  the  world  rejected.  But  now,  do  go 
and  buy  something  of  Maggie." 

"  No,  no ;  see,  she  has  got  a  customer ;  there  is  old  Wakcm 
himself  just  coming  up." 

Lucy's  eyes  turned  Avith  anxious  interest  towards  Maggie  to 
see  how  she  went  through  this  first  interview,  since  a  sadly 
memorable  time,  with  a  man  towards  whom  she  must  have 
so  strange  a  mixture  of  feelings ;  but  she  was  pleased  to  notice 
that  Wakem  had  tact  enough  to  enter  at  once  into  talk  about 
the  bazaar  wares,  and  appear  interested  in  purchasing,  smil- 
ing now  and  then  kindly  at  Maggie,  and  not  calling  on  her  to 
speak  much,  as  if  he  observed  that  she  was  rather  pale  and 
tremuWs, 


400  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"Why,  Wakem  is  making  himself  particularly  amiable  to 
your  cousin,"  said  Stephen,  in  an  undertone  to  Lucy ;  "  is  it 
pure  magnanimity  ?  You  talked  of  a  family  quarrel." 

"  Oh,  that  will  soon  be  quite  healed,  I  hope,"  said  Lucy, 
becoming  a  little  indiscreet  in  her  satisfaction,  and  speaking 
with  an  air  of  significance.  But  Stephen  did  not  appear  to 
notice  this,  and  as  some  lady-purchasers  came  up,  he  lounged 
on  towards  Maggie's  end,  handling  trifles  and  standing  aloof 
until  Wakem,  who  had  taken  out  his  purse,  had  finished  his 
transactions. 

"  My  son  came  with  me,"  he  overheard  Wakem  saying,  "  but 
ho  has  vanished  into  some  other  part  of  the  building,  and  has 
left  all  these  charitable  gallantries  to  me.  I  hope  you  '11  re- 
proach him  for  his  shabby  conduct." 

She  returned  his  smile  and  bow  without  speaking,  and  he 
turned  away,  only  then  observing  Stephen,  and  nodding  to 
him.  Maggie,  conscious  that  Stephen  was  still  there,  busied 
herself  with  counting  money,  and  avoided  looking  up.  She 
had  been  well  pleased  that  he  had  devoted  himself  to  Lucy 
to-day,  and  had  not  come  near  her.  They  had  begun  the 
morning  with  an  indifferent  salutation,  and  both  had  rejoiced 
in  being  aloof  from  each  other,  like  a  patient  who  has  act- 
ually done  without  his  opium,  in  spite  of  former  failures 
in  resolution.  And  during  the  last  few  days  they  had  even 
been  making  up  their  minds  to  failures,  looking  to  the  out- 
ward events  that  must  soon  come  to  separate  them,  as  a 
reason  for  dispensing  with  self-conquest  in  detail. 

Stephen  moved  step  by  step  as  if  he  were  being  unwillingly 
dragged,  until  he  had  got  round  the  open  end  of  the  stall, 
and  was  half  hidden  by  a  screen  of  draperies.  Maggie  went 
on  counting  her  money  till  she  suddenly  heard  a  deep  gentle 
voice  saying,  "  Are  n't  you  very  tired  ?  Do  let  me  bring  you 
something,  —  some  fruit  or  jelly,  may  n't  I  ?  " 

The  unexpected  tones  shook  her  like  a  sudden  accidental 
vibration  of  a  harp  close  by  her. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  she  said  faintly,  and  only  half  looking 
up  for  an  instant. 

"  You  look  so  pale,"  Stephen  insisted,  in  a  more  entreating 
tone.  "  I  'm  sure  you  're  exhausted.  I  must  disobey  you,  and 
bring  something." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  could  n't  take  it." 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  Do  look 
at  me." 

"  Pray,  go  away,"  said  Maggie,  looking  at  him  helplessly,  her 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  401 

eyes  glancing  immediately  from  him  to  the  opposite  corner  of 
the  orchestra,  which  was  half  hidden  by  the  folds  of  the  old 
faded  green  curtain.  Maggie  had  no  sooner  uttered  this  en- 
treaty than  she  was  wretched  at  the  admission  it  implied  ; 
but  Stephen  turned  away  at  once,  and  following  her  upward 
glance,  he  saw  Philip  Wakem  seated  in  the  half-hidden  corner, 
so  that  he  could  command  little  more  than  that  angle  of  the 
hall  in  which  Maggie  sat.  An  entirely  new  thought  occurred 
to  Stephen,  and  linking  itself  with  what  he  had  observed  of 
Wakem's  manner,  and  with  Lucy's  reply  to  his  observation,  it 
convinced  him  that  there  had  been  some  former  relation  be- 
tween Philip  and  Maggie  beyond  that  childish  one  of  which 
he  had  heard.  More  than  one  impulse  made  him  immediately 
leave  the  hall  and  go  up-stairs  to  the  refreshment-room,  where, 
walking  up  to  Philip,  he  sat  down  behind  him,  and  put  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Are  you  studying  for  a  portrait,  Phil,"  he  said,  "  or  for  a 
sketch  of  that  oriel  window  ?  By  George,  it  makes  a  capital 
bit  from  this  dark  corner,  with  the  curtain  just  marking  it  off." 

"I  have  been  studying  expression,"  said  Philip,  curtly. 

"  What !  Miss  Tulliver's  ?  It 's  rather  of  the  savage-moody 
order  to-day,  I  think,  —  something  of  the  fallen  princess  serv- 
ing behind  a  counter.  Her  cousin  sent  me  to  her  with  a  civil 
offer  to  get  her  some  refreshment,  but  I  have  been  snubbed, 
as  usual.  There  's  a  natural  antipathy  between  us,  I  suppose  ; 
I  have  seldom  the  honour  to  please  her." 

"  What  a  hypocrite  you  are  ! "  said  Philip,  flushing  angrily. 

"  What !  because  experience  must  have  told  me  that  I  'm 
universally  pleasing  ?  I  admit  the  law,  but  there 's  some 
disturbing  force  here." 

"  I  am  going,"  said  Philip,  rising  abruptly. 

"  So  am  I  — to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air  ;  this  place  gets  op- 
pressive. I  think  I  have  done  suit  and  service  long  enough." 

The  two  friends  walked  down-stairs  together  without  speak- 
ing. Philip  turned  through  the  outer  door  into  the  courtyard ; 
but  Stephen,  saying,  "  Oh,  by  the  by,  I  must  call  in  here,"  went 
on  along  the  passage  to  one  of  the  rooms  at  the  other  end  of 
the  building,  which  were  appropriated  to  the  town  library. 
He  had  the  room  all  to  himself,  and  a  man  requires  nothing 
less  than  this,  when  he  wants  to  dash  his  cap  on  the  table, 
throw  himself  astride  a  chair,  and  stare  at  a  high  brick  wall 
with  a  frown  which  would  not  have  been  beneath  the  occasion 
if  he  had  been  slaying  "  the  giant  Python."  The  conduct  that 
issues  from  a  moral  conflict  has  often  so  close  a  resemblance  to 

26 


402  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

vice,  that  the  distinction  escapes  all  outward  judgments  founded 
on  a  mere  comparison  of  actions.  It  is  clear  to  you,  I  hope,  that 
Stephen  was  not  a  hypocrite,  —  capable  of  deliberate  doubleness 
for  a  selfish  end ;  and  yet  his  fluctuations  between  the  indul- 
gence of  a  feeling  and  the  systematic  concealment  of  it,  might 
have  made  a  good  case  in  support  of  Philip's  accusation. 

Meanwhile,  Maggie  sat  at  her  stall  cold  and  trembling,  with 
that  painful  sensation  in  the  eyes  which  comes  from  resolutely 
repressed  tears.  Was  her  life  to  be  always  like  this,  —  always 
bringing  some  new  source  of  inward  strife  ?  She  heard  con- 
fusedly the  busy,  indifferent  voices  around  her,  and  wished 
her  mind  could  flow  into  that  easy  babbling  current.  It  was 
at  this  moment  that  Dr.  Kenn,  who  had  quite  lately  come 
into  the  hall,  and  was  now  walking  down  the  middle  with  his 
hands  behind  him,  taking  a  general  view,  fixed  his  eyes  on 
Maggie  for  the  first  time,  and  was  struck  with  the  expression 
of  pain  on  her  beautiful  face.  She  was  sitting  quite  still,  for 
the  stream  of  customers  had  lessened  at  this  late  hour  in  the 
afternoon;  the  gentlemen  had  chiefly  chosen  the  middle  of  the 
day,  and  Maggie's  stall  was  looking  rather  bare.  This,  with 
her  absent,  pained  expression,  finished  the  contrast  between 
her  and  her  companions,  who  were  all  bright,  eager,  and  busy. 
He  was  strongly  arrested.  Her  face  had  naturally  drawn  his 
attention  as  a  new  and  striking  one  at  church,  and  he  had  been 
introduced  to  her  during  a  short  call  on  business  at  Mr.  Deane's, 
but  he  had  never  spoken  more  than  three  words  to  her.  He 
walked  towards  her  now,  and  Maggie,  perceiving  some  one 
approaching,  roused  herself  to  look  up  and  be  prepared  to 
speak.  She  felt  a  childlike,  instinctive  relief  from  the  sense 
of  uneasiness  in  this  exertion,  when  she  saw  it  was  Dr.  Kenn's 
face  that  was  looking  at  her ;  that  plain,  middle-aged  face, 
with  a  grave,  penetrating  kindness  in  it,  seeming  to  tell  of  a 
human  being  who  had  reached  a  firm,  safe  strand,  but  was  look- 
ing with  helpful  pity  towards  the  strugglers  still  tossed  by  the 
waves,  had  an  effect  on  Maggie  at  this  moment  which  wai 
afterwards  remembered  by  her  as  if  it  had  been  a  promise. 
The  middle-aged,  who  have  lived  through  their  strongest  eino 
tions,  but  are  yet  in  the  time  when  memory  is  still  half  pas- 
sionate and  not  merely  contemplative,  should  surely  be  a  sort 
of  natural  priesthood,  whom  life  has  disciplined  and  conse- 
crated to  be  the  refuge  and  rescue  of  early  stumblers  and  vic- 
tims of  self-despair.  Most  of  us,  at  some  moment  in  our  young 
lives,  would  have  welcomed  a  priest  of  that  natural  order  in 
any  sort  of  canonicals  or  uncanonicals,  but  had  to  scramble 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  403 

upwards  into  all  the  difficulties  of  nineteen  entirely  without 
such  aid,  as  Maggie  did. 

"You  find  your  office  rather  a  fatiguing  one,  I  fear,  Miss 
Tulliver,"  said  Dr.  Kenn. 

"  It  is,  rather,"  said  Maggie,  simply,  not  being  accustomed 
to  simper  amiable  denials  of  obvious  facts. 

"But  I  can  tell  Mrs.  Kenii  that  you  have  disposed  of  her 
goods  very  quickly,"  he  added ;  "  she  will  be  very  much 
obliged  to  you." 

"  Oh,  I  have  done  nothing ;  the  gentlemen  came  very  fast 
to  buy  the  dressing-gowns  and  embroidered  waistcoats,  but  I 
think  any  of  the  other  ladies  would  have  sold  more ;  I  did  n't 
know  what  to  say  about  them." 

Dr.  Kenn  smiled.  "  I  hope  I  'in  going  to  have  you  as  a  per- 
manent parishioner  now,  Miss  Tulliver ;  am  I  ?  You  have 
been  at  a  distance  from  us  hitherto." 

"  I  have  been  a  teacher  in  a  school,  and  I  'm  going  into 
another  situation  of  the  same  kind  very  soon." 

"  Ah  ?  I  was  hoping  you  would  remain  among  your  friends, 
who  are  all  in  this  neighbourhood,  I  believe." 

"  Oh,  /  must  go,"  said  Maggie,  earnestly,  looking  at  Dr. 
Kenn  with  an  expression  of  reliance,  as  if  she  had  told  him 
her  history  in  those  three  words.  It  was  one  of  those  moments 
of  implicit  revelation  which  will  sometimes  happen  even  be- 
tween people  who  meet  quite  transiently,  — on  a  mile's  journey, 
perhaps,  or  when  resting  by  the  wayside.  There  is  always 
this  possibility  of  a  word  or  look  from  a  stranger  to  keep  alive 
the  sense  of  human  brotherhood. 

Dr.  Kenn's  ear  and  eye  took  in  all  the  signs  that  this  brief 
confidence  of  Maggie's  was  charged  with  meaning. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said ;  "  you  feel  it  right  to  go.  But 
that  will  not  prevent  our  meeting  again,  I  hope ;  it  will  not 
prevent  my  knowing  you  better,  if  I  can  be  of  any  service  to 
you." 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  pressed  hers  kindly  before  he 
turned  away. 

"She  has  some  trouble  or  other  at  heart,"  he  thought. 
"  Poor  child !  she  looks  as  if  she  might  turn  out  to  be 
one  of 

'  The  souls  by  nature  pitched  too  high, 
By  suffering  plunged  too  low.' 

There's  something  wonderfully  honest  in  those  beautiful 
eyes." 


404  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

It  may  be  surprising  that  Maggie,  among  whose  many  imper- 
fections an  excessive  delight  in  admiration  and  acknowledged 
supremacy  were  not  absent  now,  any  more  than  when  she  was 
instructing  the  gypsies  with  a  view  towards  achieving  a  royal 
position  among  them,  was  not  more  elated  on  a  day  when  she 
had  had  the  tribute  of  so  many  looks  and  smiles,  together 
with  that  satisfactory  consciousness  which  had  necessarily 
come  from  being  taken  before  Lucy's  cheval-glass,  and  mail- 
to  look  at  the  full  length  of  her  tall  beauty,  crowned  by  the 
night  of  her  massy  hair.  Maggie  had  smiled  at  herself  then, 
and  for  the  moment  had  forgotten  everything  in  the  sense  of 
her  own  beauty.  If  that  state  of  mind  could  have  lasted,  her 
choice  would  have  been  to  have  Stephen  Guest  at  her  feet, 
offering  her  a  life  filled  with  all  luxuries,  with  daily  incense 
of  adoration  near  and  distant,  and  with  all  possibilities  of 
culture  at  her  command.  But  there  were  things  in  her 
stronger  than  vanity,  —  passion  and  affection,  and  long,  deep 
memories  of  early  discipline  and  effort,  of  early  claims  on 
her  love  and  pity ;  and  the  stream  of  vanity  was  soon  swept 
along  and  mingled  imperceptibly  with  that  wider  current 
which  was  at  its  highest  force  to-day,  under  the  double  ur- 
gency of  the  events  and  inward  impulses  brought  by  the 
last  week. 

Philip  had  not  spoken  to  her  himself  about  the  removal  of 
obstacles  between  them  on  his  father's  side,  —  he  shrank  from 
that ;  but  he  had  told  everything  to  Lucy,  with  the  hope  that 
Maggie,  being  informed  through  her,  might  give  him  some  en- 
couraging sign  that  their  being  brought  thus  much  nearer  to 
each  other  was  a  happiness  to  her.  The  rush  of  conflicting  feel- 
ings was  too  great  for  Maggie  to  say  much  when  Lucy,  with  a 
face  breathing  playful  joy,  like  one  of  Correggio's  cherubs, 
poured  forth  her  triumphant  revelation ;  and  Lucy  could  hardly 
be  surprised  that  she  could  do  little  more  than  cry  with  glad- 
ness at  the  thought  of  her  father's  wish  being  fulfilled,  and 
of  Tom's  getting  the  Mill  again  in  reward  for  all  his  hard 
striving.  The  details  of  preparation  for  the  bazaar  had  then 
come  to  usurp  Lucy's  attention  for  the  next  few  days,  and 
nothing  had  been  said  by  the  cousins  on  subjects  that  were 
likely  to  rouse  deeper  feelings.  Philip  had  been  to  the  house 
more  than  once,  but  Maggie  had  had  no  private  conversation 
with  him,  and  thus  she  had  been  left  to  fight  her  inward  battle 
without  interference. 

But  when  the  bazaar  was  fairly  ended,  and  the  cousins  were 
alone  again,  resting  together  at  home,  Lucy  said,  — 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  405 

"  You  must  give  up  going  to  stay  with  your  aunt  Moss  the 
day  after  to-morrow,  Maggie ;  write  a  note  to  her,  and  tell  her 
you  have  put  it  off  at  my  request,  and  I  '11  send  the  man  with 
it.  She  won't  be  displeased ;  you  '11  have  plenty  of  time  to 
go  by-and-by ;  and  I  don't  want  you  to  go  out  of  the  way  just 
now." 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  must  go,  dear ;  I  can't  put  it  off.  I  would  n't 
leave  aunt  Gritty  out  for  the  world.  And  I  shall  have  very 
little  time,  for  I  'm  going  away  to  a  new  situation  on  the  25th 
of  June." 

"  Maggie ! "  said  Lucy,  almost  white  with  astonishment. 

"  I  did  n't  tell  you,  dear,"  said  Maggie,  making  a  great  effort 
to  command  herself,  "because  you've  been  so  busy.  But  some 
time  ago  I  wrote  to  our  old  governess,  Miss  Firniss,  to  ask  her 
to  let  me  know  if  she  met  with  any  situation  that  I  could  fill, 
and  the  other  day  I  had  a  letter  from  her  telling  me  that  I 
could  take  three  orphan  pupils  of  hers  to  the  coast  during 
the  holidays,  and  then  make  trial  of  a  situation  with  her  as 
teacher.  I  wrote  yesterday  to  accept  the  offer." 

Lucy  felt  so  hurt  that  for  some  moments  she  was  unable  to 
speak. 

"  Maggie,"  she  said  at  last,  "  how  could  you  be  so  unkind  to 
me  —  not  to  tell  me  —  to  take  such  a  step  —  and  now ! "  She 
hesitated  a  little,  and  then  added,  "  And  Philip  ?  I  thought 
everything  was  going  to  be  so  happy.  Oh,  Maggie,  what  is 
the  reason  ?  Give  it  up ;  let  me  write.  There  is  nothing  now 
to  keep  you  and  Philip  apart." 

"  Yes,"  said  Maggie,  faintly.  "  There  is  Tom's  feeling.  He 
said  I  must  give  him  up  if  I  married  Philip.  And  I  know  he 
will  not  change  —  at  least  not  for  a  long  while  —  unless  some- 
thing happened  to  soften  him." 

"  But  I  will  talk  to  him ;  he 's  coming  back  this  week.  And 
this  good  news  about  the  Mill  will  soften  him.  And  I  '11  talk 
to  him  about  Philip.  Tom 's  always  very  compliant  to  me ;  I 
don't  think  he 's  so  obstinate." 

"  But  I  must  go,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  distressed  voice.  "  I 
must  leave  some  time  to  pass.  Don't  press  me  to  stay,  dear 
Lucy." 

Lucy  was  silent  for  two  or  three  minutes,  looking  away  and 
ruminating.  At  length  she  knelt  down  by  her  cousin,  and 
looking  up  in  her  face  with  anxious  seriousness,  said,  — 

"Maggie,  is  it  that  you  don't  love  Philip  well  enough  to 
marry  him  ?  Tell  me  —  trust  me." 

Maggie  held  Lucy's  hands  tightly  in  silence  a  little  while. 


406  THE  MILL    ON   THE   FLOSS. 

Her  own  hands  were  quite  cold.     But  when  she  spoke,  her 
voice  was  quite  clear  and  distinct. 

"  Yes,  Lucy,  I  would  choose  to  marry  him.  I  think  it  would 
be  the  best  and  highest  lot  for  ine,  —  to  make  his  life  happy. 
He  loved  me  first.  No  one  else  could  be  quite  what  he  is  to 
me.  But  I  can't  divide  myself  from  my  brother  for  life.  I 
must  go  away,  and  wait.  Pray  don't  speak  to  me  again  about 
it." 

Lucy  obeyed  in  pain  and  wonder.  The  next  word  she  said 
was,  — 

"Well,  dear  Maggie,  at  least  you  will  go  to  the  dance  at 
Park  House  to-morrow,  and  have  some  music  and  bright  \ 
before  you  go  to  pay  these  dull  dutiful  visits.     Ah !  here  conie 
aunty  and  the  tea." 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    SPELL    SEEMS    BROKEN. 

THE  suite  of  rooms  opening  into  each  other  at  Park  House 
looked  duly  brilliant  with  lights  and  flowers  and  the  personal 
splendours  of  sixteen  couples,  with  attendant  parents  and 
guardians.  The  focus  of  brilliancy  was  the  long  drawing- 
room,  where  the  dancing  went  forward,  under  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  grand  piano ;  the  library,  into  which  it  opened  at 
one  end,  had  the  more  sober  illumination  of  maturity,  with 
caps  and  cards ;  and  at  the  other  end  the  pretty  sitting-room, 
with  a  conservatory  attached,  was  left  as  an  occasional  cool 
retreat.  Lucy,  who  had  laid  aside  her  black  for  the  first  time, 
and  had  her  pretty  slimness  set  off  by  an  abundant  dress  of 
white  crape,  was  the  acknowledged  queen  of  the  occasion ;  for 
this  was  one  of  the  Miss  Guests'  thoroughly  condescending  par- 
ties, including  no  member  of  any  aristocracy  higher  than  that 
of  St.  Ogg's,  and  stretching  to  the  extreme  limits  of  commer- 
cial and  professional  gentility. 

Maggie  at  first  refused  to  dance,  saying  that  she  had  for- 
gotten all  the  figures  —  it  was  so  many  years  since  she  had 
danced  at  school ;  and  she  was  glad  to  have  that  excuse,  for  it 
is  ill  dancing  with  a  heavy  heart.  But  at  length  the  music 
wrought  in  her  young  limbs,  and  the  longing  came ;  even 
though  it  was  the  horrible  young  Torry,  who  walked  up 


THE    GREAT   TEMPTATION.  407 

a  second  time  to  try  and  persuade  her.  She  warned  him 
that  she  could  not  dance  anything  but  a  country-dance ; 
but  he,  of  course,  was  willing  to  wait  for  that  high 
felicity,  meaning  only  to  be  complimentary  when  he  as- 
sured her  at  several  intervals  that  it  was  a  "  great  bore " 
that  she  could  n't  waltz,  he  would  have  liked  so  much 
to  waltz  with  her.  But  at  last  it  was  the  turn  of  the 
good  old-fashioned  dance  which  has  the  least  of  vanity 
and  the  most  of  merriment  in  it,  and  Maggie  quite  for- 
got her  troublous  life  in  a  childlike  enjoyment  of  that  half- 
rustic  rhythm,  which  seems  to  banish  pretentious  etiquette. 
She  felt  quite  charitably  towards  young  Torry,  as  his  hand 
bore  her  along  and  held  her  up  in  the  dance ;  her  eyes  and 
cheeks  had  that  fire  of  young  joy  in  them  which  will  flame 
out  if  it  can  find  the  least  breath  to  fan  it ;  and  her  simple 
black  dress,  Avith  its  bit  of  black  lace,  seemed  like  the  dim 
setting  of  a  jewel. 

Stephen  had  not  yet  asked  her  to  dance ;  had  not  yet  paid 
her  more  than  a  passing  civility.  Since  yesterday,  that  in- 
ward vision  of  her  which  perpetually  made  part  of  his 
consciousness,  had  been  half  screened  by  the  image  of 
Philip  Wakem,  which  came  across  it  like  a  blot ;  there 
was  some  attachment  between  her  and  Philip ;  at  least  there 
was  an  attachment  on  his  side,  which  made  her  feel  in 
some  bondage.  Here,  then,  Stephen  told  himself,  was  an- 
other claim  of  honour  which  called  on  him  to  resist  the 
attraction  that  was  continually  threatening  to  overpower 
him.  He  told  himself  so ;  and  yet  he  had  once  or  twice 
felt  a  certain  savage  resistance,  and  at  another  moment  a 
shuddering  repugnance,  to  this  intrusion  of  Philip's  image, 
which  almost  made  it  a  new  incitement  to  rush  towards 
Maggie  and  claim  her  for  himself.  Nevertheless,  he  had 
done  what  he  meant  to  do  this  evening,  —  he  had  kept 
aloof  from  her;  he  had  hardly  looked  at  her;  and  he  had 
been  gaily  assiduous  to  Lucy.  But  now  his  eyes  were  de- 
vouring Maggie;  he  felt  inclined  to  kick  young  Torry  out 
of  the  dance,  and  take  his  place.  Then  he  wanted  the 
dance  to  end  that  he  might  get  rid  of  his  partner.  The 
possibility  that  he  too  should  dance  with  Maggie,  and 
have  her  hand  in  his  so  long,  was  beginning  to  possess 
him  like  a  thirst.  But  even  now  their  hands  were  meeting 
in  the  dance,  —  were  meeting  still  to  the  very  end  of  it, 
though  they  were  far  off  each  other. 

Stephen  hardly  knew   what   happened,   or  in  what   auto- 


408  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

matic  way  he  got  through  the  duties  of  politeness  in  the 
interval,  until  he  was  free  and  saw  Maggie  seated  alone 
again,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  He  made  his  way 
towards  her  round  the  couples  that  were  forming  for  the 
waltz ;  and  when  Maggie  became  conscious  that  she  was 
the  person  he  sought,  she  felt,  in  spite  of  all  the  thoughts 
that  had  gone  before,  a  glowing  gladness  at  heart.  Her 
eyes  and  cheeks  were  still  brightened  with  her  childlike 
enthusiasm  in  the  dance;  her  whole  frame  was  set  to  joy 
and  tenderness ;  even  the  coming  pain  could  not  seem 
bitter,  —  she  was  ready  to  welcome  it  as  a  part  of  life, 
for  life  at  this  moment  seemed  a  keen,  vibrating  conscious- 
ness poised  above  pleasure  or  pain.  This  one,  this  last 
night,  she  might  expand  unrestrainedly  in  the  warmth  of 
the  present,  without  those  chill,  eating  thoughts  of  the  past 
and  the  future. 

"  They  're  going  to  waltz  again,"  said  Stephen,  bending  to 
speak  to  her,  with  that  glance  and  tone  of  subdued  tenderness 
which  young  dreams  create  to  themselves  in  the  summer 
woods  when  low,  cooing  voices  fill  the  air.  Such  glances  and 
tones  bring  the  breath  of  poetry  with  them  into  a  room  that 
is  half  stifling  with  glaring  gas  and  hard  flirtation. 

"  They  are  going  to  waltz  again.  It  is  rather  dizzy  work  to 
look  on,  and  the  room  is  very  warm ;  shall  we  walk  about  a 
little  ?  " 

He  took  her  hand  and  placed  it  within  his  arm,  and  they 
walked  on  into  the  sitting-room,  where  the  tables  were  strewn 
with  engravings  for  the  accommodation  of  visitors  who  would 
not  want  to  look  at  them.  But  no  visitors  were  here  at  this 
moment.  They  passed  on  into  the  conservatory. 

"How  strange  and  unreal  the  trees  and  flowers  look  with 
the  lights  among  them ! "  said  Maggie,  in  a  low  voice. 
"They  look  as  if  they  belonged  to  an  enchanted  land,  and 
would  never  fade  away ;  I  could  fancy  they  were  all  made 
of  jewels." 

She  was  looking  at  the  tier  of  geraniums  as  she  spoke,  and 
Stephen  made  no  answer ;  but  he  was  looking  at  her ;  and  does 
not  a  supreme  poet  blend  light  and  sound  into  one,  calling 
darkness  mute,  and  light  eloquent  ?  Something  strangely 
powerful  there  was  in  the  light  of  Stephen's  long  gaze,  for 
it  made  Maggie's  face  turn  towards  it  and  look  upward  at 
it,  slowly,  like  a  flower  at  the  ascending  brightness.  And 
they  walked  unsteadily  on,  without  feeling  that  they  were 
walking ;  without  feeling  anything  but  that  long,  grave,  mu- 


THE   GTREAT   TEMPTATION.  409 

tual  gaze  which,  has  the  solemnity  belonging  to  all  deep 
human  passion.  The  hovering  thought  that  they  must  and 
would  renounce  each  other  made  this  moment  of  mute  confes- 
sion more  intense  in  its  rapture. 

But  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  conservatory,  and  were 
obliged  to  pause  and  turn.  The  change  of  movement  brought 
a  new  consciousness  to  Maggie;  she  blushed  deeply,  turned 
away  her  head,  and  drew  her  arm  from  Stephen's,  going  up  to 
some  flowers  to  smell  them.  Stephen  stood  motionless,  and 
still  pale. 

"  Oh,  may  I  get  this  rose  ?  "  said  Maggie,  making  a  great 
effort  to  say  something,  and  dissipate  the  burning  sense  of 
irretrievable  confession.  "I  think  I  am  quite  wicked  with 
roses ;  I  like  to  gather  them  and  smell  them  till  they  have  no 
scent  left." 

Stephen  was  mute ;  he  was  incapable  of  putting  a  sentence 
together,  and  Maggie  bent  her  arm  a  little  upward  towards 
the  large  half-opened  rose  that  had  attracted  her.  Who  has 
not  felt  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  arm  ?  The  unspeakable 
suggestions  of  tenderness  that  lie  in  the  dimpled  elbow,  and 
all  the  varied  gently  lessening  curves,  down  to  the  delicate 
wrist,  with  its  tiniest,  almost  imperceptible  nicks  in  the  firm 
softness.  A  woman's  arm  touched  the  soul  of  a  great  sculptor 
two  thousand  years  ago,  so  that  he  wrought  an  image  of  it  for 
the  Parthenon  which  moves  us  still  as  it  clasps  lovingly  the 
time-worn  marble  of  a  headless  trunk.  Maggie's  was  such  an 
arm  as  that,  and  it  had  the  warm  tints  of  life. 

A  mad  impulse  seized  on  Stephen ;  he  darted  towards  the 
arm,  and  showered  kisses  on  it,  clasping  the  wrist. 

But  the  next  moment  Maggie  snatched  it  from  him,  and 
glared  at  him  like  a  wounded  war-goddess,  quivering  with 
rage  and  humiliation. 

"  How  dare  you  ? "  She  spoke  in  a  deeply  shaken,  half- 
smothered  voice.  "What  right  have  I  given  you  to  insult 
me?" 

She  darted  from  him  into  the  adjoining  room,  and  threw  her- 
self on  the  sofa,  panting  and  trembling. 

A  horrible  punishment  was  conie  upon  her  for  the  sin  of 
allowing  a  moment's  happiness  that  was  treachery  to  Lucy,  to 
Philip,  to  her  own  better  soul.  That  momentary  happiness 
had  been  smitten  with  a  blight,  a  leprosy ;  Stephen  thought 
more  lightly  of  her  than  he  did  of  Lucy. 

As  for  Stephen,  he  leaned  back  against  the  framework  of 
the  conservatory,  dizzy  with  the  conflict  of  passions, — love, 


410  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

rage,  and  confused  despair;  despair  at  his  want  of  self-mas- 
tery, and  despair  that  he  had  offended  Maggie. 

The  last  feeling  surmounted  every  other ;  to  be  by  her  side 
again  and  entreat  forgiveness  was  the  only  thing  that  had  the 
force  of  a  motive  for  him,  and  she  had  not  been  seated  more 
than  a  few  minutes  when  he  came  and  stood  humbly  before 
her.  But  Maggie's  bitter  rage  was  unspent. 

"Leave  me  to  myself,  if  you  please,"  she  said,  with  ini 
petuous  haughtiness,  "  and  for  the  future  avoid  me." 

Stephen  turned  away,  and  walked  backwards  and  forwards 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  There  was  the  dire  necessity 
of  going  back  into  the  dancing-room  again,  and  he  was  begin- 
ning to  be  conscious  of  that.  They  had  been  absent  so  short 
a  time,  that  when  he  went  in  again  the  waltz  was  not  ended. 

Maggie,  too,  was  not  long  before  she  re-entered.  All  the 
pride  of  her  nature  was  stung  into  activity ;  the  hateful  weak- 
ness which  had  dragged  her  within  reach  of  this  wound  to  her 
self-respect  had  at  least  wrought  its  own  cure.  The  thoughts 
and  temptations  of  the  last  month  should  all  be  flung  away 
into  an  unvisited  chamber  of  memory.  There  was  nothing  to 
allure  her  now ;  duty  would  be  easy,  and  all  the  old  calm  pur- 
poses would  reign  peacefully  once  more.  She  re-entered  the 
drawing-room  still  with  some  excited  brightness  in  her  face, 
but  with  a  sense  of  proud  self-command  that  defied  anything 
to  agitate  her.  She  refused  to  dance  again,  but  she  talked 
quite  readily  and  calmly  with  every  one  who  addressed  her. 
And  when  they  got  home  that  night,  she  kissed  Lucy  with  a 
free  heart,  almost  exulting  in  this  scorching  moment,  which 
had  delivered  her  from  the  possibility  of  another  word  or  look 
that  would  have  the  stamp  of  treachery  towards  that  gentle, 
unsuspicious  sister. 

The  next  morning  Maggie  did  not  set  off  to  Basset  quite  so 
soon  as  she  had  expected.     Her  mother  was  to  accompany  her 
in  the  carriage,  and  household  business  could  not  be  despatched 
hastily  by  Mrs.  Tulliver.     So  Maggie,  who  had  been  in  a  hurry 
to  prepare  herself,  had  to  sit  waiting,  equipped  for  the  driv" 
in  the  garden.     Lucy  was  busy  in  the  house  wrapping  up  son: 
bazaar  presents  for  the  younger  ones  at  Basset,  and  when  there 
was  a  loud  ring  at  the  door-bell,  Maggie  felt  some  alarm  lest 
Lucy   should   bring  out   Stephen   to  her;   it  was  sure  to  be 
Stephen. 

But  presently  the  visitor  came  out  into  the  garden  alone, 
and  seated  himself  by  her  on  the  garden-chair.  It  was  not 
Stephen. 


THE  GREAT   TEMPTATION.  411 

"We  can  just  catch  the  tips  of  the  Scotch  firs,  Maggie,  from 
this  seat,"  said  Philip. 

They  had  taken  each  other's  hands  in  silence,  but  Maggie 
had  looked  at  him  with  a  more  complete  revival  of  the  old 
childlike  affectionate  smile  than  he  had  seen  before,  and  he 
felt  encouraged. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  often  look  at  them,  and  wish  I  could 
see  the  low  sunlight  on  the  stems  again.  But  I  have 
never  been  that  way  but  once,  —  to  the  churchyard  with  my 
mother." 

"I  have  been  there,  I  go  there,  continually,"  said  Philip. 
"  I  have  nothing  but  the  past  to  live  upon." 

A  keen  remembrance  and  keen  pity  impelled  Maggie  to  put 
her  hand  in  Philip's.  They  had  so  often  walked  hand  in 
hand ! 

"  I  remember  all  the  spots,"  she  said,  —  "  just  where  you 
told  me  of  particular  things,  beautiful  stories  that  I  had 
never  heard  of  before." 

"  You  will  go  there  again  soon,  won't  you,  Maggie  ?  "  said 
Philip,  getting  timid.  "  The  Mill  will  soon  be  your  brother's 
home  again." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  shall  not  be  there,"  said  Maggie.  "  I  shall 
only  hear  of  that  happiness.  I  am  going  away  again ;  Lucy 
has  not  told  you,  perhaps  ?  " 

"Then  the  future  will  never  join  on  to  the  past  again, 
Maggie  ?  That  book  is  quite  closed  ?  " 

The  grey  eyes  that  had  so  often  looked  up  at  her  with  en- 
treating worship,  looked  up  at  her  now,  with  a  last  struggling 
ray  of  hope  in  them,  and  Maggie  met  them  with  her  large 
sincere  gaze. 

"  That  book  never  will  be  closed,  Philip,"  she  said,  with 
grave  sadness  ;  "  I  desire  no  future  that  will  break  the  ties  of 
the  past.  But  the  tie  to  my  brother  is  one  of  the  strongest. 
I  can  do  nothing  willingly  that  will  divide  me  always  from 
him." 

"  Is  that  the  only  reason  that  would  keep  us  apart  for  ever, 
Maggie  ?  "  said  Philip,  with  a  desperate  determination  to  have 
a  definite  answer. 

"  The  only  reason,"  said  Maggie,  with  calm  decision.  And 
she  believed  it.  At  that  moment  she  felt  as  if  the  enchanted 
cup  had  been  dashed  to  the  ground.  The  reactionary  excite- 
ment that  gave  her  a  proud  self-mastery  had  not  subsided, 
and  she  looked  at  the  future  with  a  sense  of  calm  choice. 

They  sat  hand  in  hand  without  looking  at  each  other  or 


412  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

speaking  for  a  few  minutes ;  in  Maggie's  mind  the  first  scenes 
of  love  and  parting  were  more  present  than  the  actual  monit'iit, 
and  she  was  looking  at  Philip  in  the  Keel  Deeps. 

Philip  felt  that  he  ought  to  have  been  thoroughly  happy  in 
that  answer  of  hers ;  she  was  as  open  and  transparent  as  a 
rock-pool.     Why  was  he  not  thoroughly  happy  ?     Jealou 
never  satisfied  with  anything  short  of  an  omniscience   that 
would  detect  the  subtlest  fold  of    the  heart. 


CHAPTER  XL 

IN    THE    LANE. 

MAGGIE  had  been  four  days  at  her  aunt  Moss's,  giving  the 
early  June  sunshine  quite  a  new  brightness  in  the  care-dimmed 
eyes  of  that  affectionate  woman,  and  making  an  epoch  for  her 
cousins  great  and  small,  who  were  learning  her  words  and 
actions  by  heart,  as  if  she  had  been  a  transient  avatar  of  per- 
fect wisdom  and  beauty. 

She  was  standing  on  the  causeway  with  her  aunt  and  a 
group  of  cousins  feeding  the  chickens,  at  that  quiet  moment 
in  the  life  of  the  farmyard  before  the  afternoon  milking-time. 
The  great  buildings  round  the  hollow  yard  were  as  dreary  and 
tumble-down  as  ever,  but  over  the  old  garden-wall  the  strag- 
gling rose-bushes  were  beginning  to  toss  their  summer  weight, 
and  the  grey  wood  and  old  bricks  of  the  house,  on  its  higher 
level,  had  a  look  of  sleepy  age  in  the  broad  afternoon  sunlight, 
that  suited  the  quiescent  time.  Maggie,  with  her  bonnet  over 
her  arm,  was  smiling  down  at  the  hatch  of  small  fluffy  chick- 
ens, when  her  aunt  exclaimed,  — 

"Goodness  me!  who  is  that  gentleman  coming  in  at  the 
gate  ?  " 

It  was  a  gentleman  on  a  tall  bay  horse ;  and  the  flanks  and 
neck  of  the  horse  were  streaked  black  with  fast  riding. 
Maggie  felt  a  beating  at  head  and  heart,  horrible  as  the 
sudden  leaping  to  life  of  a  savage  enemy  who  had  feigned 
death. 

••  Who  is  it,  my  dear  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Moss,  seeing  in  Maggie's 
face  the  evidence  that  she  knew. 

"It  is  Mr.  Stephen   Guest,"   said  Maggie,   rather   faintly. 


THE   GREAT    TEMPTATION.  413 

"My  cousin  Lucy's  —  a  gentleman  who  is  very  intimate  at 
my  cousin's." 

Stephen  was  already  close  to  them,  had  jumped  off  his 
horse,  and  now  raised  his  hat  as  he  advanced. 

"  Hold  the  horse,  Willy,"  said  Mrs.  Moss  to  the  twelve-year- 
old  boy. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Stephen,  pulling  at  the  horse's  im- 
patiently tossing  head.  "  I  must  be  going  again  immediately. 
I  have  a  message  to  deliver  to  you,  Miss  Tulliver,  on  private 
business.  May  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  you  to  walk  a  few 
yards  with  me  ?  " 

He  had  a  half-jaded,  half-irritated  look,  such  as  a  man  gets 
when  he  has  been  dogged  by  some  care  or  annoyance  that 
makes  his  bed  and  his  dinner  of  little  use  to  him.  He 
spoke  almost  abruptly,  as  if  his  errand  were  too  pressing 
for  him  to  trouble  himself  about  what  would  be  thought  by 
Mrs.  Moss  of  his  visit  and  request.  Good  Mrs.  Moss,  rather 
nervous  in  the  presence  of  this  apparently  haughty  gentleman, 
was  inwardly  wondering  whether  she  would  be  doing  right 
or  wrong  to  invite  him  again  to  leave  his  horse  and  walk 
in,  when  Maggie,  feeling  all  the  embarrassment  of  the  sit- 
uation, and  unable  to  say  anything,  put  on  her  bonnet,  and 
turned  to  walk  towards  the  gate. 

Stephen  turned  too,  and  walked  by  her  side,  leading  his 
horse. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  till  they  were  out  in  the  lane,  and 
had  walked  four  or  five  yards,  when  Maggie,  who  had  been 
looking  straight  before  her  all  the  while,  turned  again  to  walk 
back,  saying,  with  haughty  resentment,  — 

"  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  go  any  farther.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  consider  it  gentlemanly  and  delicate  conduct  to 
place  me  in  a  position  that  forced  me  to  come  out  with  you, 
or  whether  you  wished  to  insult  me  still  further  by  thrusting 
an  interview  upon  ine  in  this  way." 

"  Of  course  you  are  angry  with  me  for  coming,"  said  Ste- 
phen, bitterly.  "Of  course  it  is  of  no  consequence  what  a 
man  has  to  suffer;  it  is  only  your  woman's  dignity  that 
you  care  about." 

Maggie  gave  a  slight  start,  such  as  might  have  come  from 
the  slightest  possible  electric  shock. 

"  As  if  it  were  not  enough  that  I  'm  entangled  in  this  way ; 
that  I  'm  mad  with  love  for  you ;  that  I  resist  the  strongest 
passion  a  man  can  feel,  because  I  try  to  be  true  to  other 
claims;  but  you  must  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  coarse  brute. 


414  THE  MILL   ON    THE  FLOSS. 

who  would  willingly  offend  you.  And  when,  if  I  had  my  own 
choice,  I  should  ask  you  to  take  my  hand  and  my  ioitunr 
and  my  whole  life,  and  do  what  you  liked  with  them  !  1  know 
I  forgot  myself.  I  took  an  unwarrantable  liberty.  I  hate  my- 
self for  having  done  it.  But  I  repented  immediately ;  J  ' .  > 
been  repenting  ever  since.  You  ought  not  to  think  it  unpardon- 
able ;  a  man  who  loves  with  his  whole  soul,  as  I  do  you,  is 
liable  to  be  mastered  by  his  feelings  for  a  moment;  but  you 
know  —  you  must  believe  —  that  the  worst  pain  I  could  hav. 
is  to  have  pained  you;  that  I  would  give  the  world  to  recall 
the  error." 

Maggie  dared  not  speak,  dared  not  turn  her  head.  Tlic 
strength  that  had  come  from  resentment  was  all  gone,  and 
her  lips  were  quivering  visibly.  She  could  not  trust  herself 
to  utter  the  full  forgiveness  that  rose  in  answer  to  that 
confession. 

They  were  come  nearly  in  front  of  the  gate  again,  and  she 
paused,  trembling. 

"  You  must  not  say  these  things ;  I  must  not  hear  them," 
she  said,  looking  down  in  misery,  as  Stephen  came  in  front 
of  her,  to  prevent  her  from  going  farther  towards  the  gate. 
"  I  'm  very  sorry  for  any  pain  you  have  to  go  through ;  but  it 
is  of  no  use  to  speak." 

"  Yes,  it  is  of  use,"  said  Stephen,  impetuously.  "  It  would 
be  of  use  if  you  would  treat  me  with  some  sort  of  pity  and 
consideration,  instead  of  doing  me  vile  injustice  in  your  mind. 
I  could  bear  everything  more  quietly  if  I  knew  you  did  n't  hate 
me  for  an  insolent  coxcomb.  Look  at  me ;  see  what  a  hunted 
devil  I  am ;  I  've  been  riding  thirty  miles  every  day  to  get 
away  from  the  thought  of  you." 

Maggie  did  not  —  dared  not  —  look.  She  had  already  seen 
the  harassed  face.  But  she  said  gently,  — 

"  I  don't  think  any  evil  of  you." 

"Then,  dearest,  look  at  me,"  said  Stephen,  in  deepest, 
tenderest  tones  of  entreaty.  "Don't  go  away  from  nn- 
yet.  Give  me  a  moment's  happiness ;  make  me  feel  you  've 
forgiven  me." 

"  Yes,  I  do  forgive  you,"  said  Maggie,  shaken  by  those  tones, 
and  all  the  more  frightened  at  herself.  "  But  pray  let  me  go 
in  again.  Pray  go  away." 

A  great  tear  fell  from  under  her  lowered  eyelids. 

"I  can't  go  away  from  you;  I  can't  leave  you,"  said 
Stephen,  with  still  more  passionate  pleading.  "  I  shall 
come  back  again  if  you  send  me  away  with  this  coldness ; 


THE  GREAT   TEMPTATION.  415 

I  can't  answer  for  myself.  But  if  you  will  go  with  me 
only  a  little  way  I  can  live  on  that.  You  see  plainly 
enough  that  your  anger  has  only  made  me  ten  times  more 
unreasonable." 

Maggie  turned.  But  Tancred,  the  bay  horse,  began  to  make 
such  spirited  remonstrances  against  this  frequent  change  of 
direction,  that  Stephen,  catching  sight  of  Willy  Moss  peeping 
through  the  gate,  called  out,  "  Here  !  just  come  and  hold  my 
horse  for  five  minutes." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Maggie,  hurriedly,  "  my  aunt  will  think  it  so 
strange." 

"  Never  mind,"  Stephen  answered  impatiently ;  "  they  don't 
know  the  people  at  St.  Ogg's.  Lead  him  up  and  down  just 
here  for  five  minutes,"  he  added  to  Willy,  who  was  now  close 
to  them ;  and  then  he  turned  to  Maggie's  side,  and  they 
walked  on.  It  was  clear  that  she  must  go  on  now. 

"  Take  my  arm,"  said  Stephen,  entreatingly ;  and  she  took 
it,  feeling  all  the  while  as  if  she  were  sliding  downwards  in  a 
nightmare. 

"  There  is  no  end  to  this  misery,"  she  began,  struggling  to 
repel  the  influence  by  speech.  "It  is  wicked  —  base  —  ever 
allowing  a  word  or  look  that  Lucy  —  that  others  might  not 
have  seen.  Think  of  Lucy." 

"  I  do  think  of  her  —  bless  her.  If  I  did  n't  —  "  Stephen 
had  laid  his  hand  on  Maggie's  that  rested  on  his  arm,  and  they 
both  felt  it  difficult  to  speak. 

"  And  I  have  other  ties,"  Maggie  went  on,  at  last,  with  a 
desperate  effort,  "  even  if  Lucy  did  not  exist." 

"  You  are  engaged  to  Philip  Wakem  ? "  said  Stephen, 
hastily.  "  Is  it  so  ?  " 

"  I  consider  myself  engaged  to  him  ;  I  don't  mean  to  marry 
any  one  else." 

Stephen  was  silent  again  until  they  had  turned  out  of  the 
un  into  a  side  lane,  all  grassy  and  sheltered.  Then  he  burst 
lit  impetuously, — 

"  It  is  unnatural,  it  is  horrible.  Maggie,  if  you  loved  me  as 
I  love  you,  we  should  throw  everything  else  to  the  winds  for 
the  sake  of  belonging  to  each  other.  We  should  break  all  these 
mistaken  ties  that  were  made  in  blindness,  and  determine  to 
marry  each  other." 

"I  would  rather  die  than  fall  into  that  temptation,"  said 
Maggie,  with  deep,  slow  distinctness,  all  the  gathered  spirit- 
ual force  of  painful  years  coming  to  her  aid  in  this  extremity. 
She  drew  her  arm  from  his  as  she  spoke. 


416  THE   MILL    ON    THE   FLOSS. 

"Tell  me,  then,  that  you  don't  care  for  me,"  he  said,  almost 
violently.  "  Tell  me  that  you  love  some  one  else  better." 

It  darted  through  Maggie's  mind  that  here  was  a  mode  of 
releasing  herself  from  outward  struggle,  —  to  tell  Stephen  that 
her  whole  heart  was  Philip's.  But  her  lips  would  riot  utter 
that,  and  she  was  silent. 

"  If  you  do  love  me,  dearest,"  said  Stephen,  gently,  taking 
up  her  hand  again  and  laying  it  within  his  arm,  "  it  is  bet- 
ter—  it  is  right  that  we  should  marry  each  other.  We  can't 
help  the  pain  it  will  give.  It  is  come  upon  us  without  our 
seeking ;  it  is  natural ;  it  has  taken  hold  of  me  in  spite  of 
every  effort  I  have  made  to  resist  it.  God  knows,  I've  been 
trying  to  be  faithful  to  tacit  engagements,  and  I  've  only  made 
things  worse;  I'd  better  have  given  way  at  first." 

Maggie  was  silent.  If  it  were  not  wrong  —  if  she  were  once 
convinced  of  that,  and  need  no  longer  beat  and  struggle  against 
this  current,  soft  and  yet  strong  as  the  summer  stream  ! 

"  Say  l  yes/  dearest,"  said  Stephen,  leaning  to  look  entreat- 
ingly  in  her  face.  "What  could  we  care  about  in  the  whole 
world  beside,  if  we  belonged  to  each  other  ?  " 

Her  breath  was  on  his  face,  his  lips  were  very  near  hers, 
but  there  was  a  great  dread  dwelling  in  his  love  for  her. 

Her  lips  and  eyelids  quivered  ;  she  opened  her  eyes  full  on 
his  for  an  instant,  like  a  lovely  wild  animal  timid  and  strug- 
gling under  caresses,  and  then  turned  sharp  round  towards 
home  again. 

"And  after  all,"  he  went  on,  in  an  impatient  tone,  trying  to 
defeat  his  own  scruples  as  well  as  hers,  "I  am  breaking  no 
positive  engagement ;  if  Lucy's  affections  had  been  withdrawn 
from  me  and  given  to  some  one  else,  I  should  have  felt  no 
right  to  assert  a  claim  on  her.  If  you  are  not  absolutely 
pledged  to  Philip,  we  are  neither  of  us  bound." 

"  You  don't  believe  that ;  it  is  not  your  real  feeling,"  said 
Maggie,  earnestly.  "You  feel,  as  I  do,  that  the  real  tie  lies 
in  the  feelings  and  expectations  we  have  raised  in  other  minds. 
Else  all  pledges  might  be  broken,  when  there  was  no  outward 
penalty.  There  would  be  no  such  thing  as  faithfulness." 

Stephen  was  silent ;  he  could  not  pursue  that  argument ;  the 
opposite  conviction  had  wrought  in  him  too  strongly  through 
his  previous  time  of  struggle.  But  it  soon  presented  itself  in 
a  new  form. 

"The  pledge  can't  be  fulfilled,"  he  said,  with  impetuous 
insistance.  "  It  is  unnatural ;  we  can  only  pretend  to  give 
ourselves  to  any  one  else.  There  is  wrong  in  that  too ;  there 


THE  GREAT   TEMPTATION.  417 

may  be  misery  in  it  for  them  as  well  as  for  us.  Maggie,  you 
must  see  that;  you  do  see  that." 

He  was  looking  eagerly  at  her  face  for  the  least  sign  of 
compliance  ;  his  large,  firm,  gentle  grasp  was  on  her  hand. 
She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground ;  then  she  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  said,  looking  up  at 
him  with  solemn  sadness,  — 

"  Oh,  it  is  difficult,  —  life  is  very  difficult !  It  seems  right 
to  me  sometimes  that  we  should  follow  our  strongest  feeling ; 
but  then,  such  feelings  continually  come  across  the  ties  that 
all  our  former  life  has  made  for  us,  —  the  ties  that  have  made 
others  dependent  on  us,  —  and  would  cut  them  in  two.  If  life 
were  quite  easy  and  simple,  as  it  might  have  been  in  Paradise, 
and  we  could  always  see  that  one  being  first  towards  whom  — 
I  mean,  if  life  did  not  make  duties  for  us  before  love  comes, 
love  would  be  a  sign  that  two  people  ought  to  belong  to  each 
other.  But  I  see  —  I  feel  it  is  not  so  now;  there  are  things 
we  must  renounce  in  life ;  some  of  us  must  resign  love. 
Many  things  are  difficult  and  dark  to  me ;  but  I  see  one  thing 
quite  clearly,  —  that  I  must  not,  cannot,  seek  my  own  happi- 
ness by  sacrificing  others.  Love  is  natural ;  but  surely  pity 
and  faithfulness  and  memory  are  natural  too.  And  they 
would  live  in  me  still,  and  punish  me  if  I  did  not  obey  them. 
I  should  be  haunted  by  the  suffering  I  had  caused.  Our  love 
would  be  poisoned.  Don't  urge  me ;  help  me,  —  help  me, 
because  I  love  you." 

Maggie  had  become  more  and  more  earnest  as  she  went  on ; 
her  face  had  become  flushed,  and  her  eyes  fuller  and  fuller  of 
appealing  love.  Stephen  had  the  fibre  of  nobleness  in  him 
that  vibrated  to  her  appeal ;  but  in  the  same  moment  —  how 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  —  that  pleading  beauty  gained  new 
power  over  him. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  in  scarcely  more  than  a  whisper,  while 
his  arm  stole  round  her,  "  I  '11  do,  I  '11  bear  anything  you 
wish.  But  —  one  kiss  —  one  —  the  last  —  before  we  part." 

One  kiss,  and  then  a  long  look,  until  Maggie  said  tremu- 
lously, "Let  me  go, — let  us  make  haste  back." 

She  hurried  along,  and  not  another  word  was  spoken.  Ste- 
phen stood  still  and  beckoned  when  they  came  within  sight  of 
Willy  and  the  horse,  and  Maggie  went  on  through  the  gate. 
Mrs.  Moss  was  standing  alone  at  the  door  of  the  old  porch  ; 
she  had  sent  all  the  cousins  in,  with  kind  thoughtfulness.  It 
might  be  a  joyful  thing  that  Maggie  had  a  rich  and  handsome 
lover,  but  she  would  naturally  feel  embarrassed  at  coming  in 

27 


418  THE    MILL    ON   THE   FLOSS. 

again;  and  it  might  not  be  joyful.  In  either  case  Mrs.  Moss 
waited  anxiously  to  receive  Maggie  by  herself.  The  speaking 
face  told  plainly  enough  that,  if  there  was  joy,  it  was  of  a 
very  agitating,  dubious  sort. 

"  Sit  down  here  a  bit,  my  dear."  She  drew  Maggie  into  the 
porch,  and  sat  down  on  the  bench  by  her ;  there  was  no  pri- 
vacy in  the  house. 

"  Oh,  aunt  Gritty,  I  'm  very  wretched.  I  wish  I  could  have 
died  when  I  was  fifteen.  It  seemed  so  easy  to  give  things  up 
then ;  it  is  so  hard  now." 

The  poor  child  threw  her  arms  round  her  aunt's  neck,  and 
fell  into  long,  deep  sobs. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A    FAMILY    PARTY. 

MAGGIE  left  her  good  aunt  Gritty  at  the  end  of  the  week, 
and  went  to  Garum  Firs  to  pay  her  visit  to  aunt  Pullet  accord- 
ing to  agreement.  In  the  meantime  very  unexpected  things 
had  happened,  and  there  was  to  be  a  family  party  at  Garum  to 
discuss  and  celebrate  a  change  in  the  fortunes  of  the  Tullivers, 
which  was  likely  finally  to  carry  away  the  shadow  of  their  de- 
merits like  the  last  limb  of  an  eclipse,  and  cause  their  hitherto 
obscured  virtues  to  shine  forth  in  full-rounded  splendour.  It 
is  pleasant  to  know  that  a  new  ministry  just  come  into  office 
are  not  the  only  fellow-men  who  enjoy  a  period  of  high  appre- 
ciation and  full-blown  eulogy ;  in  many  respectable  families 
throughout  this  realm,  relatives  becoming  creditable  meet 
with  a  similar  cordiality  of  recognition,  which  in  its  fine 
freedom  from  the  coercion  of  any  antecedents,  suggests  the 
hopeful  possibility  that  we  may  some  day  without  any  notice 
find  ourselves  in  full  millennium,  with  cockatrices  who  have 
ceased  to  bite,  and  wolves  that  no  longer  show  their  teeth 
with  any  but  the  blandest  intentions. 

Lucy  came  so  early  as  to  have  the  start  even  of  aunt  Glegg ; 
for  she  longed  to  have  some  undisturbed  talk  with  Maggie 
about  the  wonderful  news.  It  seemed,  did  it  not  ?  said  Lucy, 
with  her  prettiest  air  of  wisdom,  as  if  everything,  even  other 
people's  misfortunes  ( poor  creatures ! )  were  conspiring  now 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  419 

to  make  poor  dear  aunt  Tulliver,  and  cousin  Tom,  and  naughty 
Maggie  too,  if  she  were  not  obstinately  bent  on  the  contrary, 
as  happy  as  they  deserved  to  be  after  all  their  troubles.  To 
think  that  the  very  day  —  the  very  day  —  after  Tom  had  come 
back  from  Newcastle,  that  unfortunate  young  Jetsome,  whom 
Mr.  Wakem  had  placed  at  the  Mill,  had  been  pitched  off  his 
horse  in  a  drunken  fit,  and  was  lying  at  St.  Ogg's  in  a  dan- 
gerous state,  so  that  Wakem  had  signified  his  wish  that 
the  new  purchasers  should  enter  on  the  premises  at  once  !  It 
was  very  dreadful  for  that  unhappy  young  man,  but  it  did 
seem  as  if  the  misfortune  had  happened  then,  rather  than 
at  any  other  time,  in  order  that  cousin  Tom  might  all  the 
sooner  have  the  fit  reward  of  his  exemplary  conduct,  —  papa 
thought  so  very  highly  of  him.  Aunt  Tulliver  must  certainly 
go  to  the  Mill  now,  and  keep  house  for  Tom  ;  that  was  rather 
a  loss  to  Lucy  in  the  matter  of  household  comfort ;  but  then, 
to  think  of  poor  aunty  being  in  her  old  place  again,  and  grad- 
ually getting  comforts  about  her  there  ! 

On  this  last  point  Lucy  had  her  cunning  projects,  and  when 
she  and  Maggie  had  made  their  dangerous  way  down  the 
bright  stairs  into  the  handsome  parlour,  where  the  very 
sunbeams  seemed  cleaner  than  elsewhere,  she  directed  her 
manoeuvres,  as  any  other  great  tactician  would  have  done, 
against  the  weaker  side  of  the  enemy. 

"Aunt  Pullet,"  she  said,  seating  herself  on  the  sofa,  and 
caressingly  adjusting  that  lady's  floating  cap-string,  "  I  want 
you  to  make  up  your  mind  what  linen  and  things  you  will 
give  Tom  towards  housekeeping;  because  you  are  always 
so  generous, — you  give  such  nice  things,  you  know;  and 
if  you  set  the  example,  aunt  Glegg  will  follow." 

"That  she  never  can,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  with 
unusual  vigour,  "  for  she  has  n't  got  the  linen  to  follow 
suit  wi'  mine,  I  can  tell  you.  She  'd  niver  the  taste,  not 
if  she  'd  spend  the  money.  Big  checks  and  live  things,  like 
stags  and  foxes,  all  her  table-linen  is,  —  not  a  spot  nor  a 
diamont  among  'em.  But  it 's  poor  work  dividing  one's  linen 
before  one  dies,  —  I  niver  thought  to  ha'  done  that,  Bessy," 
Mrs.  Pullet  continued,  shaking  her  head  and  looking  at  her 
sister  Tulliver,  "  when  you  and  me  chose  the  double  diamont, 
the  first  flax  iver  we  'd  spun,  and  the  Lord  knows  where  yours 
is  gone." 

"  I  'd  no  choice,  I  'm  sure,  sister,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
accustomed  to  consider  herself  in  the  light  of  an  accused  per- 
son. "  I  'm  sure  it  was  no  wish  o'  mine,  iver,  as  I  should  lie 


420  77/7?  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

awake  o'  nights  thinking  o'  my  best  bleached  linen  all  over 
the  country." 

"Take  a  peppermint,  Mrs.  Tulliver,"  said  uncle  Pullet, 
feeling  that  he  was  offering  a  cheap  and  wholesome  form 
of  comfort,  which  he  was  recommending  by  example. 

"  Oh,  but,  aunt  Pullet,"  said  Lucy,  "  you  've  so  much  beauti- 
ful linen.  And  suppose  you  had  had  daughters !  Then  you 
must  have  divided  it  when  they  were  married." 

"Well,  I  don't  say  as  I  won't  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "for 
now  Tom's  so  lucky,  it's  nothing  but  right  his  friends  should 
look  on  him  and  help  him.  There's  the  tablecloths  I  bought 
at  your  sale,  Bessy ;  it  was  nothing  but  good-natur'  o'  me  to 
buy  'em,  for  they  've  been  lying  in  the  chest  ever  since.  I  Sir. 
I'm  not  going  to  give  Maggie  any  more  o'  my  Indy  muslin 
and  things,  if  she's  to  go  into  service  again,  when  she  mi-lit 
stay  and  keep  me  company,  and  do  my  sewing  for  me,  if  .she 
was  n't  wanted  at  her  brother's." 

"Going  into  service"  was  the  expression  by  which  the 
Dodson  mind  represented  to  itself  the  position  of  teacher  or 
governess ;  and  Maggie's  return  to  that  menial  condition,  now 
circumstances  offered  her  more  eligible  prospects,  was  likely 
to  be  a  sore  point  with  all  her  relatives,  besides  Lucy. 
Maggie  in  her  crude  form,  with  her  hair  down  her  back,  and 
altogether  in  a  state  of  dubious  promise,  was  a  most  undesirable 
niece ;  but  now  she  was  capable  of  being  at  once  ornamental 
and  useful.  The  subject  was  revived  in  aunt  and  uncle 
Glegg's  presence,  over  the  tea  and  muffins. 

"  Hegh,  hegh ! "  said  Mr.  Glegg,  good-naturedly  patting 
Maggie  on  the  back,  "  nonsense,  nonsense !  Don't  let  us  hear 
of  you  taking  a  place  again,  Maggie.  Why,  you  must  ha' 
picked  up  half-a-dozen  sweethearts  at  the  bazaar ;  is  n't  there 
one  of  'em  the  right  sort  of  article  ?  Come,  no\v  V  " 

"  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  his  wife,  with  that  shade  of  increased 
politeness  in  her  severity  which  she  always  put  on  with  her 
<;risper  fronts,  "you'll  excuse  me,  but  you're  far  too  light  for 
a  man  of  your  years.  It's  respect  and  duty  to  her  aunts,  and 
the  rest  of  her  kin  as  are  so  good  to  her,  should  have  kept 
my  niece  from  fixing  about  going  away  again  without  consult- 
ing us ;  not  sweethearts,  if  I  'm  to  use  such  a  word,  though  it 
was  never  heared  in  my  family." 

"  Why,  what  did  they  call  us,  when  we  went  to  see  'em,  then, 
eh,  neighbour  Pullet  ?  They  thought  us  sweet  enough  then," 
said  Mr.  Glegg,  winking  pleasantly ;  while  Mr.  Pullet,  at  the 
suggestion  of  sweetness,  took  a  little  more  sugar. 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION. 

"  Mr.  Glegg,"  said  Mrs.  G.,  "  if  you  're  going  to  be  undelicate, 
let  me  know." 

"  La,  Jane,  your  husband 's  only  joking/'  said  Mrs.  Pullet ; 
"let  him  joke  while  he's  got  health  and  strength.  There's 
poor  Mr.  Tilt  got  his  mouth  drawn  all  o'  one  side,  and 
couldn't  laugh  if  he  was  to  try." 

"  I  '11  trouble  you  for  the  muffineer,  then,  Mr.  Glegg,"  said 
Mrs.  G.,  "if  I  may  be  so  bold  to  interrupt  your  joking. 
Though  it 's  other  people  must  see  the  joke  in  a  niece's  put- 
ting a  slight  on  her  mother's  eldest  sister,  as  is  the  head  o' 
the  family ;  and  only  coming  in  and  out  on  short  visits,  all 
the  time  she 's  been  in  the  town,  and  then  settling  to  go  away 
without  my  knowledge,  —  as  I  'd  laid  caps  out  on  purpose 
for  her  to  make  'em  up  for  me,  —  and  me  as  have  divided  my 
money  so  equal  —  " 

"Sister,"  Mrs.  Tulliver  broke  in  anxiously,  "I'm  sure 
Maggie  never  thought  o'  going  away  without  staying  at  your 
house  as  well  as  the  others.  Not  as  it 's  my  wish  she  should 
go  away  at  all,  but  quite  contrairy.  I  'm  sure  I  'm  innocent. 
I've  said  over  and  over  again,  'My  dear,  you've  no  call  to 
go  away.'  But  there 's  ten  days  or  a  fortnight  Maggie  '11  have 
before  she 's  fixed  to  go ;  she  can  stay  at  your  house  just  as 
well,  and  I  '11  step  in  when  I  can,  and  so  will  Lucy." 

"  Bessy,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg,  "  if  you  'd  exercise  a  little  more 
thought,  you  might  know  I  should  hardly  think  it  was  worth 
while  to  unpin  a  bed,  and  go  to  all  that  trouble  now,  just  at 
the  end  o'  the  time,  when  our  house  is  n't  above  a  quarter 
of  an  hour's  walk  from  Mr.  Deane's.  She  can  come  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning,  and  go  back  the  last  at  night,  and  be 
thankful  she 's  got  a  good  aunt  so  close  to  her  to  come  and 
sit  with.  I  know  I  should,  when  I  was  her  age." 

"La,  Jane/'  said  Mrs.  Pullet,  "it  'ud  do  your  beds  good 
to  have  somebody  to  sleep  in  'em.  There 's  that  striped  room 
smells  dreadful  mouldy,  and  the  glass  mildewed  like  anything. 
I  'm  sure  I  thought  I  should  be  struck  with  death  when  you 
took  me  in." 

"  Oh,  there  is  Tom ! "  exclaimed  Lucy,  clapping  her  hands. 
"  He 's  come  on  Sindbad,  as  I  told  him.  I  was  afraid  he  was 
not  going  to  keep  his  promise." 

Maggie  jumped  up  to  kiss  Tom  as  he  entered,  with  strong 
feeling,  at  this  first  meeting  since  the  prospect  of  returning 
to  the  Mill  had  been  opened  to  him ;  and  she  kept  his  hand, 
leading  him  to  the  chair  by  her  side.  To  have  no  cloud 
between  herself  and  Tom  was  still  a  perpetual  yearning  in 


422  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

her,  that  had  its  root  deeper  than  all  change.  He  smiled  at 
her  very  kindly  this  evening,  and  said,  "Well,  Magsie,  how  's 
aunt  Moss  '.'  " 

"Come,  come,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Glegg,  putting  out  his  hand. 
"Why,  you're  such  a  big  man,  you  cany  all  before  you,  it 
seems.  You  're  come  into  your  luck  a  good  deal  earlier  than 
us  old  folks  did ;  but  I  wish  you  joy,  I  wish  you  joy.  You  '11 
;-'t  the  Mill  all  for  your  own  again  some  day,  I'll  be  bound. 
V'ou  won't  stop  half-way  up  the  hill." 

"But  I  hope  he'll  bear  in  mind  as  it's  his  mother's  family 
as  he  owes  it  to,"  said  Mrs.  Glegg.  "  If  he  hadn't  had  them 
to  take  after,  he  'd  ha'  been  poorly  off.  There  was  never  any 
failures,  nor  lawing,  nor  wastefulness  in  our  family,  nor  dying 
without  wills  —  " 

"No,  nor  sudden  deaths,"  said  aunt  Pullet;  "allays  the 
doctor  called  in.  But  Tom  had  the  Dodson  skin ;  I  said  that 
from  the  first.  And  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  to  do,  sister 
Glegg,  but  I  mean  to  give  him  a  tablecloth  of  all  my  three 
biggest  sizes  but  one,  besides  sheets.  I  don't  say  what  more 
I  shall  do ;  but  that  I  shall  do,  and  if  I  should  die  to-morrow, 
Mr.  Pullet,  you  '11  bear  it  in  mind,  —  though  you  11  be  blunder- 
ing with  the  keys,  and  never  remember  as  that  on  the  third 
shelf  o'  the  left-hand  wardrobe,  behind  the  night-caps  with  the 
broad  ties,  —  not  the  narrow-frilled  uns,  —  is  the  key  o'  the 
drawer  in  the  Blue  Boom,  where  the  key  o'  the  Blue  Closet  is. 
You  '11  make  a  mistake,  and  I  shall  niver  be  worthy  to  know 
it.  You  've  a  memory  for  my  pills  and  draughts,  wonderful,  — 
I  '11  allays  say  that  of  you,  —  but  you  're  lost  among  the  keys." 
This  gloomy  prospect  of  the  confusion  that  would  ensue  on 
her  decease  was  very  affecting  to  Mrs.  Pullet. 

"You  carry  it  too  far,  Sophy, — that  locking  in  and  out," 
said  Mrs.  Glegg,  in  a  tone  of  some  disgust  at  this  folly.  "  You 
go  beyond  your  own  family.  There 's  nobody  can  say  I  don't 
lock  up ;  but  I  do  what 's  reasonable,  and  no  more.  And  as 
for  the  linen,  I  shall  look  out  what 's  serviceable,  to  make  a 
present  of  to  my  nephey ;  I  've  got  cloth  as  has  never  been 
,vhittened,  better  worth  having  than  other  people's  fine  hoi- 
land  ;  and  I  hope  he  '11  lie  down  in  it  and  think  of  his  aiint." 

Tom  thanked  Mrs.  Glegg,  but  evaded  any  promise  to  medi- 
tate nightly  on  her  virtues ;  and  Mr.  Glegg  effected  a  diversion 
for  him  by  asking  about  Mr.  Deane's  intentions  concerning 
steam. 

Lucy  had  had  her  far-sighted  views  in  begging  Tom  to  come 
on  Sindbad.  It  appeared,  when  it  was  time  to  go  home,  that 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  423 

the  man-servant  was  to  ride  the  horse,  and  cousin  Tom  was  to 
drive  home  his  mother  and  Lucy.  "  You  must  sit  by  your- 
self, aunty,"  said  that  contriving  young  lady,  "  because  I  must 
sit  by  Tom ;  I  've  a  great  deal  to  say  to  him." 

In  the  eagerness  of  her  affectionate  anxiety  for  Maggie, 
Lucy  could  not  persuade  herself  to  defer  a  conversation  about 
her  with  Tom,  who,  she  thought,  with  such  a  cup  of  joy  before 
him  as  this  rapid  fulfilment  of  his  wish  about  the  Mill,  must 
become  pliant  and  flexible.  Her  nature  supplied  her  with  n« 
key  to  Tom's ;  and  she  was  puzzled  as  well  as  pained  to  notin 
the  unpleasant  change  on  his  countenance  when  she  gave  him 
the  history  of  the  way  in  which  Philip  had  used  his  influence 
with  his  father.  She  had  counted  on  this  revelation  as  a  great 
stroke  of  policy,  which  was  to  turn  Tom's  heart  towards  Philip 
at  once,  and,  besides  that,  prove  that  the  elder  Wakem  was 
ready  to  receive  Maggie  with  all  the  honours  of  a  daughter- 
in-law.  Nothing  was  wanted,  then,  but  for  dear  Tom,  who 
always  had  that  pleasant  smile  when  he  looked  at  cousin  Lucy, 
to  turn  completely  round,  say  the  opposite  of  what  he  had 
always  said  before,  and  declare  that  he,  for  his  part,  was  de- 
lighted that  all  the  old  grievances  should  be  healed,  and  that 
Maggie  should  have  Philip  with  all  suitable  despatch ;  in  cousin 
Lucy's  opinion  nothing  could  be  easier. 

But  to  minds  strongly  marked  by  the  positive  and  negative 
qualities  that  create  severity,  —  strength  of  will,  conscious 
rectitude  of  purpose,  narrowness  of  imagination  and  intellect, 
great  power  of  self-control,  and  a  disposition  to  exert  control 
over  others,  —  prejudices  come  as  the  natural  food  of  tenden- 
cies which  can  get  no  sustenance  out  of  that  complex,  fragmen- 
tary, doubt-provoking  knowledge  which  we  call  truth.  Let  a 
prejudice  be  bequeathed,  carried  in  the  air,  adopted  by  hear- 
say, caught  in  through  the  eye,  —  however  it  may  come,  these 
minds  will  give  it  a  habitation;  it  is  something  to  assert 
strongly  and  bravely,  something  to  fill  up  the  void  of  sponta- 
neous ideas,  something  to  impose  on  others  with  the  authority 
of  conscious  right ;  it  is  at  once  a  staff  and  a  baton.  Every 
prejudice  that  will  answer  these  purposes  is  self-evident.  Our 
good,  upright  Tom  Tulliver's  mind  was  of  this  class  ;  his  inward 
criticism  of  his  father's  faults  did  not  prevent  him  from 
adopting  his  father's  prejudice ;  it  was  a  prejudice  against  a 
man  of  lax  principle  and  lax  life,  and  it  was  a  meeting-point 
for  all  the  disappointed  feelings  of  family  and  personal  pride. 
Other  feelings  added  their  force  to  produce  Tom's  bitter  repug- 
nance to  Philip,  and  to  Maggie's  union  with  him ;  and  notwith- 


424  THE  MILL   ON    THE  FLOSS. 

standing  Lucy's  power  over  her  strong-willed  cousin,  she  got 
nothing  but  a  cold  refusal  ever  to  sanction  such  a  marriage  ; 
•'*  but  of  course  Maggie  could  do  as  she  liked,  —  she  had  de- 
clared her  determination  to  be  independent.  For  Tom's  part, 
he  held  himself  bound  by  his  duty  to  his  father's  memory, 
and  by  every  manly  feeling,  never  to  consent  to  any  relation 
with  the  Wakems." 

Thus,  all  that  Lucy  had  effected  by  her  zealous  mediation 
was  to  fill  Tom's  mind  with  the  expectation  that  Maggie's  per- 
verse resolve  to  go  into  a  situation  again  would  presently 
metamorphose  itself,  as  her  resolves  were  apt  to  do,  into  some- 
thing equally  perverse,  but  entirely  different,  —  a  marriage 
with  Philip  Wakem. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BORNE   ALONG    BY    THE    TIDE. 

IN  less  than  a  week  Maggie  was  at  St.  Ogg's  again,  —  out- 
wardly in  much  the  same  position  az  when  her  visit  there  had 
just  begun.  It  was  easy  for  her  to  fill  her  mornings  apart 
from  Lucy  without  any  obvious  effort ;  for  she  had  her  prom- 
ised visits  to  pay  to  her  aunt  Glegg,  and  it  was  natural  that 
she  should  give  her  mother  more  than  usual  of  her  companion- 
ship in  these  last  weeks,  especially  as  there  were  preparations 
to  be  thought  of  for  Tom's  housekeeping.  But  Lucy  would 
hear  of  no  pretext  for  her  re.-iaimrj  away  in  the  evenings; 
she  must  always  come  from  nunt  Glegg's  before  dinner,  —  "else 
what  shall  I  have  of  you  ? "  said  Lucy,  with  a  tearful  pout 
that  could  not  be  resisted.  And  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  had  unac- 
countably taken  to  dining  at  Mr.  Deane's  as  often  as  possible, 
instead  of  avoiding  that,  as  he  used  to  do.  At  first  he  began 
his  mornings  with  a  resolution  that  he  would  not  dine  there, 
not  even  go  in  the  evening,  till  Maggie  was  away.  He  had 
even  devised  a  plan  of  starting  off  on  a  journey  in  this  agree- 
able June  weather ;  the  headaches  which  he  had  constantly  been 
alleging  as  a  ground  for  stupidity  and  silence  were  a  sufficient 
ostensible  motive.  But  the  journey  was  not  taken,  and  by  the 
fourth  morning  no  distinct  resolution  was  formed  about  the 
evenings;  they  were -only  foreseen  as  times  when  Maggie 
would  still  be  present  for  a  little  while,  —  when  one  more  touch, 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  425 

one  more  glance,  might  be  snatched.  For  why  not  ?  There 
was  nothing  to  conceal  between  them;  they  knew,  they  had 
confessed  their  love,  and  they  had  renounced  each  other ;  they 
were  going  to  part.  Honour  and  conscience  were  going  to 
divide  them ;  Maggie,  with  that  appeal  from  her  inmost  soul, 
had  decided  it ;  but  surely  they  might  cast  a  lingering  look  at 
each  other  across  the  gulf,  before  they  turned  away  never  to 
look  again  till  that  strange  light  had  for  ever  faded  out  of 
:heir  eyes. 

Maggie,  all  this  time,  moved  about  with  a  quiescence  and 
even  torpor  of  manner,  so  contrasted  with  her  usual  fitful 
brightness  and  ardour,  that  Lucy  would  have  had  to  seek  some 
other  cause  for  such  a  change,  if  she  had  not  been  convinced 
that  the  position  in  which  Maggie  stood  between  Philip  and 
her  brother,  and  the  prospect  of  her  self-imposed  wearisome 
banishment,  were  quite  enough  to  account  for  a  large  amount 
of  depression.  But  under  this  torpor  there  was  a  fierce  bat- 
tle of  emotions,  such  as  Maggie  in  all  her  life  of  struggle 
had  never  known  or  foreboded;  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  all 
the  worst  evil  in  her  had  lain  in  ambush  till  now,  and  had 
suddenly  started  up  full-armed,  with  hideous,  overpowering 
strength  !  There  were  moments  in  which  a  cruel  selfishness 
seemed  to  be  getting  possession  of  her ;  why  should  not 
Lucy,  why  should  not  Philip,  suffer  ?  She  had  had  to  suffer 
through  many  years  of  her  life ;  and  who  had  renounced  any- 
thing for  her  ?  And  when  something  like  that  fulness  of  ex- 
istence—  love,  wealth,  ease,  refinement,  all  that  her  nature 
craved — was  brought  within  her  reach,  why  was  she  to  forego 
it,  that  another  might  have  it,  —  another,  who  perhaps  needed 
it  less  ?  But  amidst  all  this  new  passionate  tumult  there  were 
the  old  voices  making  themselves  heard  with  rising  power,  till, 
from  time  to  time,  the  tumult  seemed  quelled.  Was  that  ex- 
istence which  tempted  her  the  full  existence  she  dreamed  ? 
Where,  then,  would  be  all  the  memories  of  early  striving ;  all 
the  deep  pity  for  another's  pain,  which  had  been  nurtured  in 
her  through  years  of  affection  and  hardship;  all  the  divine 
presentiment  of  something  higher  than  mere  personal  enjoy- 
ment, which  had  made  the  sacredness  of  life  ?  She  might  as 
well  hope  to  enjoy  walking  by  maiming  her  feet,  as  hope  to 
enjoy  an  existence  in  which  she  set  out  by  maiming  the  faith 
and  sympathy  that  were  the  best  organs  of  her  soul.  And 
then,  if  pain  were  so  hard  to  her,  what  was  it  to  others  ?  "  Ah, 
God !  preserve  me  from  inflicting  —  give  me  strength  to  bear 
ib."  How  had  she  sunk  into  this  struggle  with  a  temptation 


426  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

that  she  would  once  have  thought  herself  as  secure  from  as 
from  deliberate  crime  ?  When  was  that  first  hateful  moment 
in  which  she  had  been  conscious  of  a  feeling  that  clashed 
with  her  truth,  affection,  and  gratitude,  and  had  riot  shaken 
it  from  her  with  horror,  as  if  it  had  been  a  loathsome  thing  ? 
And  yet,  since  this  strange,  sweet,  subduing  influence  did  not, 
should  not,  conquer  her,  —  since  it  was  to  remain  simply  her 
own  suffering,  —  her  mind  was  meeting  Stephen's  in  that 
thought  of  his,  that  they  might  still  snatch  moments  of  mut< 
confession  before  the  parting  came.  For  was  not  he  suffer- 
ing too  ?  She  saw  it  daily  —  saw  it  in  the  sickened  look  of 
fatigue  with  which,  as  soon  as  he  was  not  compelled  to  exert 
himself,  he  relapsed  into  indifference  towards  everything  but 
the  possibility  of  watching  her.  Could  she  refuse  sometimes 
to  answer  that  beseeching  look  which  she  felt  to  be  following 
her  like  a  low  murmur  of  love  and  pain  ?  She  refused  it  less 
and  less,  till  at  last  the  evening  for  them  both  was  sometimes 
made  of  a  moment 's  mutual  gaze ;  they  thought  of  it  till  it 
came,  and  when  it  had  come,  they  thought  of  nothing  else. 
One  other  thing  Stephen  seemed  now  and  then  "to  care  for, 
and  that  was  to  sing ;  it  was  a  way  of  speaking  to  Maggie. 
Perhaps  he  was  not  distinctly  conscious  that  he  was  impelled 
to  it  by  a  secret  longing — running  counter  to  all  his  self- 
confessed  resolves  —  to  deepen  the  hold  he  hud  on  her.  Watch 
your  own  speech,  and  notice  how  it  is  guided  by  your  less 
conscious  purposes,  and  you  will  understand  that  contradic- 
tion in  Stephen. 

Philip  Wakem  was  a  less  frequent  visitor,  but  he  came  occa- 
sionally in  the  evening,  and  it  happened  that  he  was  there 
when  Lucy  said,  as  they  sat  out  on  the  lawn,  near  sunset,  — 

"  Now  Maggie's  tale  of  visits  to  aunt  Glegg  is  completed,  I 
mean  that  we  shall  go  out  boating  every  day  until  she  goes. 
She  has  not  had  half  enough  boating  because  of  these  tire- 
some visits,  and  she  likes  it  better  than  anything.  Don't 
you,  Maggie  ?  " 

"Better  than  any  sort  of  locomotion,  I  hope  you  mean." 
said  Philip,  smiling  at  Maggie,  who  was  lolling  backward  in  :i 
low  garden-chair;  "else  she  will  be  selling  her  soul  to  thai 
ghostly  boatman  who  haunts  the  Floss,  only  for  the  sake  of 
being  drifted  in  a  boat  for  ever." 

"Should  you  like  to  be  her  boatman?"  said  Lucy.  "Be- 
cause, if  you  would,  you  can  come  with  us  and  take  an  oar.  If 
the  Floss  were  but  a  quiet  lake  instead  of  a  river,  we  should 
be  independent  of  any  gentleman,  for  Maggie  can  row  splen- 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  427 

didly,  As  it  is,  we  are  reduced  to  ask  services  of  knights 
and  squires,  who  do  not  seem  to  offer  them  with  great 
alacrity." 

She  looked  playful  reproach  at  Stephen,  who  was  sauntering 
up  and  down,  and  was  just  singing  in  pianissimo  falsetto,  — 

"  The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 
Doth  ask  a  drink  divine." 

He  took  no  notice,  but  still  kept  aloof;  he  had  done  so  fre- 
quently during  Philip's  recent  visits. 

"  You  don't  seem  inclined  for  boating,"  said  Lucy,  when  he 
came  to  sit  down  by  her  on  the  bench.  "  Does  n't  rowing  suit 
you  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  hate  a  large  party  in  a  boat,"  he  said,  almost  irri- 
tably. "  I  '11  come  when  you  have  no  one  else." 

Lucy  coloured,  fearing  that  Philip  would  be  hurt ;  it  was 
quite  a  new  thing  for  Stephen  to  speak  in  that  way ;  but  he  had 
certainly  not  been  well  of  late.  Philip  coloured  too,  but  less 
from  a  feeling  of  personal  offence  than  from  a  vague  suspicion 
that  Stephen's  moodiness  had  some  relation  to  Maggie,  who 
had  started  up  from  her  chair  as  he  spoke,  and  had  walked 
towards  the  hedge  of  laurels  to  look  at  the  descending  sunlight 
on  the  river. 

"  As  Miss  Deane  did  n't  know  she  was  excluding  others  by 
inviting  me,"  said  Philip,  "  I  am  bound  to  resign." 

"No,  indeed,  you  shall  not,"  said  Lucy,  much  vexed.  "I 
particularly  wish  for  your  company  to-morrow.  The  tide  will 
suit  at  half-past  ten ;  it  will  be  a  delicious  time  for  a  couple 
of  hours  to  row  to  Luckreth  and  walk  back,  before  the  sun 
gets  too  hot.  And  how  can  you  object  to  four  people  in  a 
boat  ?  "  she  added,  looking  at  Stephen. 

"  I  don't  object  to  the  people,  but  the  number,"  said 
Stephen,  who  had  recovered  himself,  and  was  rather  ashamed 
of  his  rudeness.  "  If  I  voted  for  a  fourth  at  all,  of  course  it 
would  be  you,  Phil.  But  we  won't  divide  the  pleasure  of 
escorting  the  ladies ;  we  '11  take  it  alternately.  I  '11  go  the 
next  day." 

This  incident  had  the  effect  of  drawing  Philip's  attention 
with  freshened  solicitude  towards  Stephen  and  Maggie;  but 
when  they  re-entered  the  house,  music  was  proposed,  and  Mrs. 
Tulliver  and  Mr.  Deane  being  occupied  with  cribbage,  Maggie 
sat  apart  near  the  table  where  the  books  and  work  were 
placed,  doing  nothing,  however,  but  listening  abstractedly 
to  the  music.  Stephen  presently  turned  to  a  duet  which 


428  THE   MILL    ON    Till-:    I- LOSS, 

he  insisted  that  Lucy  and  Philip  should  sing ;  he  had  often 
done  the  same  thing  before ;  but  this  evening  Philip  thought 
he  divined  some  double  intention  in  every  word  and  look  of 
Stephen's,  and  watched  him  keenly,  angry  with  himself  all 
the  while  for  this  clinging  suspicion.  For  had  not  Maggie 
virtually  denied  any  ground  for  his  doubts  on  her  side  ?  And 
she  was  truth  itself}  it  was  impossible  not  to  believe  her 
word  and  glance  when  they  had  last  spoken  together  in  the 
garden.  Stephen  might  .be  strongly  fascinated  by  her  (what 
was  more  natural  ?),  but  Philip  felt  himself  rather  base  for 
intruding  on  what  must  be  his  friend's  painful  secret.  Still 
he  watched.  Stephen,  moving  away  from  the  piano,  sauntered 
slowly  towards  the  table  near  which  Maggie  sat,  and  turned 
over  the  newspapers,  apparently  in  mere  idleness.  Then  he 
seated  himself  with  his  back  to  the  piano,  dragging  a  news- 
paper under  his  elbow,  and  thrusting  his  hand  through  his 
hair,  as  if  he  had  been  attracted  by  some  bit  of  local  news  in 
the  "  Laceham  Courier."  He  was  in  reality  looking  at  Maggie, 
who  had  not  taken  the  slightest  notice  of.'  his  approach.  She 
had  always  additional  strength  of  resistance  when  Philip  was 
present,  just  as  we  can  restrain  our  speech  better  in  a  spot 
that  we  feel  to  be  hallowed.  But  at  last  she  heard  the  word 
"  dearest "  uttered  in  the  softest  tone  of  pained  entreaty,  like 
that  of  a  patient  who  asks  for  something  that  ought  to  have 
been  given  without  asking.  She  had  never  heard  that  word 
since  the  moments  in  the  lane  at  Basset,  when  it  had  come 
from  Stephen  again  and  again,  almost  as  involuntarily  as  if 
it  had  been  an  inarticulate  cry.  Philip  could  hear  no  word, 
but  he  had  moved  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  piano,  and  could 
see  Maggie  start  and  blush,  raise  her  eyes  an  instant  towards 
Stephen's  face,  but  immediately  look  apprehensively  towards 
himself.  It  was  not  evident  to  her  that  Philip  had  observed 
her ;  but  a  pang  of  shame,  under  the  sense  of  this  conceal- 
ment, made  her  move  from  her  chair  and  walk  to  her  mother's 
side  to  watch  the  game  at  cribbage. 

Philip  went  home  soon  after  in  a  state  of  hideous  doubt 
mingled  with  wretched  certainty.  It  was  impossible  for  him 
now  to  resist  the  conviction  that  there  was  some  mutual 
consciousness  between  Stephen  and  Maggie  ;  and  for  half  the 
night  his  irritable,  susceptible  nerves  were  pressed  upon 
almost  to  frenzy  by  that  one  wretched  fact ;  he  could  attempt 
no  explanation  that  would  reconcile  it  with  her  words  and 
actions.  When,  at  last,  the  need  for  belief  in  Maggie  rose 
to  its  habitual  predominance,  he  was  not  long  in  imagining 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  429 

the  truth,  —  she  was  struggling,  she  was  banishing  herself ;  this 
was  the  clue  to  all  he  had  seen  since  his  return.  But  athwart 
that  belief  there  came  other  possibilities  that  would  not  be 
driven  out  of  sight.  His  imagination  wrought  out  the  whole 
story :  Stephen  was  madly  in  love  with  her  ;  he  must  have 
told  her  so ;  she  had  rejected  him,  and  was  hurrying  away. 
But  would  he  give  her  up,  knowing  —  Philip  felt  the  fact 
with  heart-crushing  despair  —  that  she  was  made  half  helpless 
by  her  feeling  towards  him  ? 

When  the  morning  came,  Philip  was  too  ill  to  think  of 
keeping  his  engagement  to  go  in  the  boat.  In  his  present 
agitation  he  could  decide  on  nothing ;  he  could  only  alternate 
between  contradictory  intentions.  First,  he  thought  he  must 
have  an  interview  with  Maggie,  and  entreat  her  to  confide  in 
him ;  then,  again,  he  distrusted  his  own  interference.  Had 
he  not  been  thrusting  himself  on  Maggie  all  along  ?  She 
had  uttered  words  long  ago  in  her  young  ignorance ;  it  was 
enough  to  make  her  hate  him  that  these  should  be  contin- 
ually present  with  her  as  a  bond.  And  had  he  any  right  to 
ask  her  for  a  revelation  of  feelings  which  she  had  evidently 
intended  to  withhold  from  him  ?  He  would  not  trust  him- 
self to  see  her,  till  he  had  assured  himself  that  he  could  act 
from  pure  anxiety  for  her,  and  not  from  egoistic  irritation. 
He  wrote  a  brief  note  to  Stephen,  and  sent  it  early  by  the 
servant,  saying  that  he  was  not  well  enough  to  fulfil  his 
engagement  to  Miss  Deane.  Would  Stephen  take  his  excuse, 
and  fill  his  place  ? 

Lucy  had  arranged  a  charming  plan,  which  had  made  her 
quite  content  with  Stephen's  refusal  to  go  in  the  boat.  She 
discovered  that  her  father  was  to  drive  to  Lindum  this  morn- 
ing at  ten ;  Lindum  was  the  very  place  she  wanted  to  go  to, 
to  make  purchases,  —  important  purchases,  which  must  by  no 
means  be  put  off  to  another  opportunity;  and  aunt  Tulliver 
must  go  too,  because  she  was  concerned  in  some  of  the 
purchases. 

"•You  will  have  your  row  in  the  boat  just  the  same,  you 
know,"  she  said  to  Maggie  when  they  went  out  of  the  break- 
fast-room and  up-stairs  together ;  "  Philip  will  be  here  at  half- 
past  ten,  and  it  is  a  delicious  morning.  Now  don't  say  a  word 
against  it,  you  dear  dolorous  thing.  What  is  the  use  of  my 
being  a  fairy  godmother,  if  you  set  your  face  against  all  the 
wonders  I  work  for  you  ?  Don't  think  of  awful  cousin  Tom ; 
you  mny  disobey  him  a  little." 

Maggie  did  not  persist  in  objecting.     She  was  almost  glad 


430  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS, 

of  the  plan,  for  perhaps  it  would  bring  her  some  strength  and 
calmness  to  be  alone  with  Philip  again;  it  was  like  revisit- 
ing the  scene  of  a  quieter  life,  in  which  the  very  struggles 
were  repose,  compared  with  the  daily  tumult  of  the  present. 
She  prepared  herself  for  the  boat,  and  at  half-past  ten  sat 
waiting  in  the  drawing-room. 

The  ring  of  the  door-bell  was  punctual,  and  she  was  think- 
ing with  half-sad,  affectionate  pleasure  of  the  surprise  Philip 
would  have  in  finding  that  he  was  to  be  with  her  alone,  when 
she  distinguished  a  firm,  rapid  step  across  the  hall,  that  was 
certainly  not  Philip's;  the  door  opened,  and  Stephen  Guest 
entered. 

In  the  first  moment  they  were  both  too  much  agitated  to 
speak ;  for  Stephen  had  learned  from  the  servant  that  the 
others  were  gone  out.  Maggie  had  started  up  and  sat  down 
again,  with  her  heart  beating  violently;  and  Stephen,  throw- 
ing down  his  cap  and  gloves,  came  and  sat  by  her  in  silence. 
She  thought  Philip  would  be  coming  soon ;  and  with  great 
effort  —  for  she  trembled  visibly  —  she  rose  to  go  to  a  distant 
chair. 

"  He  is  not  coming,"  said  Stephen,  in  a  low  tone.  "  /  am 
going  in  the  boat." 

"  Oh,  we  can't  go,"  said  Maggie,  sinking  into  her  chair 
again.  "Lucy  did  not  expect  —  she  would  be  hurt.  Why  is 
not  Philip  come  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  well ;  he  asked  me  to  come  instead." 

"Lucy  is  gone  to  Lindum,"  said  Maggie,  taking  off  her 
bonnet  with  hurried,  trembling  fingers.  "  We  must  not  go." 

"Very  well,"  said  Stephen,  dreamily,  looking  at  her,  as  he 
rested  his  arm  on  the  back  of  his  chair.  "  Then  we  '11  stay 
here." 

He  was  looking  into  her  deep,  deep  eyes,  far  off  and  myste- 
rious as  the  starlit  blackness,  and  yet  very  near,  and  timidly 
loving.      Maggie  sat  perfectly  still  —  perhaps   for  moment 
perhaps  for  minutes  —  until  the  helpless  trembling  had  ceased, 
and  there  was  a  warm  glow  on  her  cheek. 

"The  man  is  waiting;  he  has  taken  the  cushions,"  she  sai<:. 
"  Will  you  go  and  tell  him  ?  " 

"  What  shall  I  tell  him  ? "  said  Stephen,  almost  in  a 
whisper.  He  was  looking  at  the  lips  now. 

Maggie  made  no  answer. 

"Let  us  go,"  Stephen  murmured  entreatingly,  rising,  and 
taking  her  hand  to  raise  her  too.  "  We  shall  not  be  long 
together." 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  431 

And  they  went.  Maggie  felt  that  she  was  being  led  down 
the  garden  among  the  roses,  being  helped  with  firm,  tender 
care  into  the  boat,  having  the  cushion  and  cloak  arranged  for 
her  feet,  and  her  parasol  opened  for  her  (which  she  had  for- 
gotten), all  by  this  stronger  presence  that  seemed  to  bear  her 
along  without  any  act  of  her  own  will,  like  the  added  self 
wMch  conies  with  the  sudden  exalting  influence  of  a  strong 
ionic,  and  she  felt  nothing  else.  Memory  was  excluded. 

They  glided  rapidly  along,  Stephen  rowing,  helped  by  the 
backward-flowing  tide,  past  the  Tofton  trees  and  houses; 
on  between  the  silent  sunny  fields  and  pastures,  which  seemed 
filled  with  a  natural  joy  that  had  no  reproach  for  theirs.  The 
breath  of  the  young,  unwearied  day,  the  delicious  rhythmic  dip 
of  the  oars,  the  fragmentary  song  of  a  passing  bird  heard  now 
and  then,  as  if  it  were  only  the  overflowing  of  brimful  glad- 
ness, the  sweet  solitude  of  a  twofold  consciousness  that  was 
mingled  into  one  by  that  grave,  untiring  gaze  which  need  not 
be  averted,  — -  what  else  could  there  be  in  their  minds  for  the 
first  hour  ?  Some  low,  subdued,  languid  exclamation  of  love 
came  from  Stephen  from  time  to  time,  as  he  went  on  rowing 
idly,  half  automatically  ;  otherwise  they  spoke  no  word ;  for 
what  could  words  have  been  but  an  inlet  to  thought  ?  and 
thought  did  not  belong  to  that  enchanted  haze  in  which  they 
were  enveloped,  —  it  belonged  to  the  past  and  the  future  that 
lay  outside  the  haze.  Maggie  was  only  dimly  conscious  of  the 
banks,  as  they  passed  them,  and  dwelt  with  no  recognition 
on  the  villages  ;  she  knew  there  were  several  to  be  passed  be- 
fore they  reached  Luckreth,  where  they  always  stopped  and 
left  the  boat.  At  all  times  she  was  so  liable  to  fits  of  ab- 
sence, that  she  was  likely  enough  to  let  her  way-marks  pass 
unnoticed. 

But  at  last  Stephen,  who  had  been  rowing  more  and  more 
idly,  ceased  to  row,  laid  down  the  oars,  folded  his  arms, 
and  looked  down  on  the  water  as  if  watching  the  pace  at 
which  the  boat  glided  without  his  help.  This  sudden  change 
roused  Maggie.  She  looked  at  the  far-stretching  fields,  at 
the  banks  close  by,  and  felt  that  they  were  entirely  strange 
to  her.  A  terrible  alarm  took  possession  of  her. 

"  Oh,  have  we  passed  Luckreth,  where  we  were  to  stop  ?  " 
she  exclaimed,  looking  back  to  see  if  the  place  were  out  of 
sight.  No  village  was  to  be  seen.  She  turned  round  again, 
with  a  look  of  distressed  questioning  at  Stephen. 

He  went  on  watching  the  water,  and  said,  in  a  strange, 
dreamy,  absent  tone,  "  Yes,  a  long  way." 


432  THE   MILL    ON    THE   FLOSS. 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  cried  Maggie,  in  an  agony.  "  We 
shall  not  get  home  for  hours,  —  and  Lucy,  —  0  God,  help 
me  !" 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  broke  into  a  sob,  like  a  fright- 
ened child ;  she  thought  of  nothing  but  of  meeting  Lucy,  and 
seeing  her  look  of  pained  surprise  and  doubt,  perhaps  of 
just  upbraiding. 

Stephen  moved  and  sat  near  her,  and  gently  drew  down  the 
clasped  hands. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said,  in  a  deep  tone  of  slow  decision,  "  let  us 
never  go  home  again,  till  no  one  can  part  us,  —  till  we  are 
married." 

The  unusual  tone,  the  startling  words,  arrested  Maggie's 
sob,  and  she  sat  quite  still,  wondering ;  as  if  Stephen  might 
have  seen  some  possibilities  that  would  alter  everything,  and 
annul  the  wretched  facts. 

"  See,  Maggie,  how  everything  has  come  without  our  seeking, 
—  in  spite  of  all  our  efforts.  We  never  thought  of  being  alone 
together  again  ;  it  has  all  been  done  by  others.  See  how  the 
tide  is  carrying  us  out,  away  from  all  those  unnatural  bonds 
that  we  have  been  trying  to  make  faster  round  us,  and  trying 
in  vain.  It  will  carry  us  on  to  Torby,  and  we  can  land  there, 
and  get  some  carriage,  and  hurry  on  to  York  and  then  to  Scot- 
land, —  and  never  pause  a  moment  till  we  are  bound  to  each 
other,  so  that  only  death  can  part  us.  It  is  the  only  right 
thing,  dearest ;  it  is  the  only  way  of  escaping  from  this 
wretched  entanglement.  Everything  has  concurred  to  point  it 
out  to  us.  We  have  contrived  nothing,  we  have  thought  of 
nothing  ourselves." 

Stephen  spoke  with  deep,  earnest  pleading.  Maggie  lis- 
tened, passing  from  her  startled  wonderment  to  the  yearning 
after  that  belief  that  the  tide  was  doing  it  all,  that  she  might 
glide  along  with  the  swift,  silent  stream,  and  not  struggle  any 
more.  But  across  that  stealing  influence  came  the  terrible 
shadow  of  past  thoughts  ;  and  the  sudden  horror  lest  now,  at 
last,  the  moment  of  fatal  intoxication  was  close  upon  her, 
called  up  feelings  of  angry  resistance  towards  Stephen. 

"  Let  me  go  ! "  she  said,  in  an  agitated  tone,  flashing  an 
indignant  look  at  him,  and  trying  to  get  her  hands  free. 
"  You  have  wanted  to  deprive  me  of  any  choice.  You  knew 
we  were  come  too  far ;  you  have  dared  to  take  advantage 
of  my  thoughtlessness.  It  is  unmanly  to  bring  me  into 
such  a  position." 

Stung  by  this  reproach,  he  released  her  hands,  moved  back 


THE    GREAT   TEMPTATION.  433 

to  his  former  place,  and  folded  his  arms,  in  a  sort  of  des- 
peration at  the  difficulty  Maggie's  words  had  made  present 
to  him.  If  she  would  not  consent  to  go  on,  he  must  curse 
himself  for  the  embarrassment  he  had  led  her  into.  But 
the  reproach  was  the  unendurable  thing ;  the  one  thing  worse 
than  parting  with  her  was,  that  she  should  feel  he  had  acted 
unworthily  towards  her.  At  last  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  sup- 
pressed rage,  — 

"  I  did  n't  notice  that  we  had  passed  Luckreth  till  we  had  got 
to  the  next  village  ;  and  then  it  came  into  my  mind  that  we 
would  go  on.  I  can't  justify  it ;  I  ought  to  have  told  you.  It 
is  enough  to  make  you  hate  me,  since  you  don't  love  me  well 
enough  to  make  everything  else  indifferent  to  you,  as  I  do  you. 
Shall  I  stop  the  boat  and  try  to  get  you  out  here  ?  I  '11  tell 
Lucy  that  I  Avas  mad,  and  that  you  hate  me  ;  and  you  shall  be 
clear  of  me  for  ever,  No  one  can  blame  you,  because  I  have 
behaved  unpardonably  to  you." 

Maggie  was  paralysed;  it  was  easier  to  resist  Stephen's 
pleading  than  this  picture  he  had  called  up  of  himself  suf- 
fering while  she  was  vindicated;  easier  even  to  turn  away 
from  his  look  of  tenderness  than  from  this  look  of  angry 
misery,  that  seemed  to  place  her  in  selfish  isolation  from 
him.  He  had  called  up  :<  state  of  feeling  in  which  the 
reasons  which  had  acted  r:-.  her  conscience  seemed  to  be 
transmuted  into  mere  self-regard.  Tho  indignant  fire  in 

O  o 

her  eyes  Avas  quenched,  and  she  began  to  look  at  him  with 
timid  distress.  She  had  reproached  him  for  being  hurried 
into  irrevocable  trespass,  —  r1"^  who  had  been  so  weak 
herself. 

"As  if  I  should  n't  feel  what  happened  to  you  —  just  the 
same,"  she  said,  with  reproach  of  another  kind,  —  the  re- 
proach of  love,  asking  for  more  trust.  This  yielding  to 
the  idea  of  Stephen's  suffering  was  more  fatal  than  the 
other  yielding,  because  it  was  less  distinguishable  from  that 
sense  of  others'  claims  which  was  the  moral  basis  of  her 
resistance. 

He  felt  all  the  relenting  in  her  look  and  tone ;  it  was 
heaven  opening  again.  He  moved  to  her  side,  and  took 
her  hand,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  back  of  the  boat,  and 
saying  nothing.  He  dreaded  to  utter  another  word,  he 
dreaded  to  make  another  movement,  that  might  provoke 
another  reproach  or  denial  from  her.  Life  hung  on  her 
consent ;  everything  else  was  hopeless,  confused,  sickening 
misery.  They  glided  along  in  this  way,  both  resting  in 

28 


434  THE   MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

that  silence  as  in  a  haven,  both  dreading  lest  their  feelings 
should  be  divided  again,  —  till  they  became  aware  that  the 
clouds  had  gathered,  and  that  the  slightest  perceptible  fresh- 
ening of  the  breeze  was  growing  and  growing,  so  that  the 
whole  character  of  the1  day  was  altered. 

"You  will  be  chill,  Maggie,  in  this  thin  dress.  Let  me 
raise  the  cloak  over  your  shoulders.  Get  up  an  instant, 
dearest." 

Maggie  obeyed ;  there  was  an  unspeakable  charm  in  being 
told  what  to  do,  and  having  everything  decided  for  her.  She 
sat  down  again  covered  with  the  cloak,  and  Stephen  took  to  his 
oars  again,  making  haste ;  for  they  must  try  to  get  to  Torby  as 
fast  as  they  could.  Maggie  was  hardly  conscious  of  having  said 
or  done  anything  decisive.  All  yielding  is  attended  with  a  less 
vivid  consciousness  than  resistance  ;  it  is  the  partial  sleep  of 
thought ;  it  is  the  submergence  of  our  own  personality  by  an- 
other. Every  influence  tended  to  lull  her  into  acquiescence. 
That  dreamy  gliding  in  the  boat  which  had  lasted  for  four 
hours,  and  had  brought  some  weariness  and  exhaustion ;  the 
recoil  of  her  fatigued  sensations  from  the  impracticable  diffi- 
culty of  getting  out  of  the  boat  at  this  unknown  distance  from 
home,  and  walking  for  long  miles,  —  all  helped  to  bring  her  into 
more  complete  subjection  to  that  strong,  mysterious  charm 
which  made  a  last  parting  from  Stephen  seem  the  death  of  all 
joy,  and  made  the  thought  of  wounding  him  like  the  first  touch 
of  the  torturing  iron  before  which  resolution  shrank.  And  then 
there  was  the  present  happiness  of  being  with  him,  which  was 
enough  to  absorb  all  her  languid  energy. 

Presently  Stephen  observed  a  vessel  coming  after  them. 
Several  vessels,  among  them  the  steamer  to  Mudport,  had 
passed  them  with  the  early  tide,  but  for  the  last  hour  they 
had  seen  none.  He  looked  more  and  more  eagerly  at  this 
vessel,  as  if  a  new  thought  had  come  into  his  mind  along 
with  it,  and  then  he  looked  at  Maggie  hesitatingly. 

"  Maggie,  dearest,"  he  said  at  last,  "  if  this  vessel  should 
he  going  to  Mudport,  or  to  any  convenient  place  on  the 
coast  northward,  it  would  be  our  best  plan  to  get  them 
to  take  us  on  board.  You  are  fatigued,  and  it  may  soon 
rain ;  it  may  be  a  wretched  business,  getting  to  Torby  in 
this  boat.  It 's  only  a  trading  vessel,  but  I  daresay  you 
can  be  made  tolerably  comfortable.  We  '11  take  the  cushions 
out  of  the  boat.  It  is  really  our  best  plan.  They  '11  be  glad 
enough  to  take  us.  I  Ve  got  plenty  of  money  about  me. 
I  can  pay  them  well." 


THE   GREAT  TEMPTATION.  435 

Maggie's  heart  began  to  beat  with  reawakened  alarm  at  this 
new  proposition ;  but  she  was  silent,  —  one  course  seemed  as 
difficult  as  another. 

Stephen  hailed  the  vessel.  It  was  a  Dutch  vessel  going  to 
Mudport,  the  English  mate  informed  him,  and,  if  this  wind 
held,  would  be  there  in  less  than  two  days. 

"  We  had  got  out  too  far  with  our  boat,"  said  Stephen.  "  I 
was  trying  to  make  for  Torby.  But  I  'm  afraid  of  the  weath- 
er ;  and  this  lady  —  my  wife  —  will  be  exhausted  with  fatigue 
and  hunger.  Take  us  on  board  —  will  you  ?  —  and  haul  up  the 
boat.  I  '11  pay  you  well." 

Maggie,  now  really  faint  and  trembling  with  fear,  was  taken 
on  board,  making  an  interesting  object  of  contemplation  to  ad- 
miring Dutchmen.  The  mate  feared  the  lady  would  have  a  poor 
time  of  it  on  board,  for  they  had  no  accommodation  for  such  en- 
tirely unlooked-for  passengers,  —  no  private  cabin  larger  than 
an  old-fashioned  church-pew.  But  at  least  they  had  Dutch 
cleanliness,  which  makes  all  other  inconveniences  tolerable ; 
and  the  boat-cushions  were  spread  into  a  couch  for  Mag- 
gie 011  the  poop  with  all  alacrity.  But  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  deck  leaning  on  Stephen  —  being  upheld  by  his 
strength  —  was  the  first  change  that  she  needed;  then  came 
food,  and  then  quiet  reclining  on  the  cushions,  with  the  sense 
that  no  new  resolution  could  be  taken  that  day.  Everything 
must  wait  till  to-morrow.  Stephen  sat  beside  her  with  her 
hand  in  his ;  they  could  only  speak  to  each  other  in  low 
tones  ;  only  look  at  each  other  now  and  then,  for  it  would 
take  a  long  while  to  dull  the  curiosity  of  the  five  men  on 
board,  and  reduce  these  handsome  young  strangers  to  that 
minor  degree  of  interest  which  belongs,  in  a  sailor's  regard, 
to  all  objects  nearer  than  the  horizon.  But  Stephen  was  tri- 
umphantly happy.  Every  other  thought  or  care  was  thrown 
into  unmarked  perspective  by  the  certainty  that  Maggie  must 
be  his.  The  leap  had  been  taken  now ;  he  had  been  tortured 
by  scruples,  he  had  fought  fiercely  with  overmastering  inclina- 
tion, he  had  hesitated;  but  repentance  was  impossible.  He 
murmured  forth  in  fragmentary  sentences  his  happiness,  his 
adoration,  his  tenderness,  his  belief  that  their  life  together 
must  be  heaven,  that  her  presence  with  him  would  give  rap- 
ture to  every  common  day ;  that  to  satisfy  her  lightest  wish 
was  dearer  to  him  than  all  other  bliss ;  that  everything  was 
easy  for  her  sake,  except  to  part  with  her ;  and  now  they  never 
would  part ;  he  would  belong  to  her  for  ever,  and  all  that  was 
his  was  hers, —  had  no  value  for  him  except  as  it  was  hers.  Such 


436  THE   MILL    ON    THE   FLOSS. 

things,  uttered  in  low,  broken  tones  by  the  one  voice  that  has 
first  stirred  the  fibre  of  young  passion,  have  only  a  ±< 
effect  —  on  experienced  minds  at  a  distance  from  them.  To 
poor  Maggie  they  were  very  near ;  they  were  like  nectar  i 
close  to  thirsty  lips ;  there  was,  there  must  be,  then,  a  life  for 
mortals  here  below  which  was  not  hard  and  chill,  —  in  which 
affection  would  no  longer  be  self-sacrifice.  Stephen's  passion- 
ate words  made  the  vision  of  such  a  life  more  fully  present  to 
her  than  it  had  ever  been  before ;  and  the  vision  for  the  time 
excluded  all  realities, — all  except  the  returning  sun-gleams 
which  broke  out  on  the  waters  as  the  evening  approached,  and 
mingled  with  the  visionary  sunlight  of  promised  happiness ; 
all  except  the  hand  that  pressed  hers,  and  the  voice  that  spoke 
to  her,  and  the  eyes  that  looked  at  her  with  grave,  unspeakable 
love. 

There  was  to  be  no  rain,  after  all ;  the  clouds  rolled  off  to 
the  horizon  again,  making  the  great  purple  rampart  and  long 
purple  isles  of  that  wondrous  land  which  reveals  itself  to  us 
when  the  sun  goes  down,  —  the  land  that  the  evening  star 
watches  over.  Maggie  was  to  sleep  all  night  on  the  poop; 
it  was  better  than  going  below  ;  and  she  was  covered  with  the 
warmest  wrappings  the  ship  could  furnish.  It  was  still  early, 
when  the  fatigues  of  the  day  brought  on  a  drowsy  longing  for 
perfect  rest,  and  she  laid  down  her  head,  looking  at  the  faint, 
dying  flush  in  the  west,  where  the  one  golden  lamp  was  get- 
ting brighter  and  brighter.  Then  she  looked  up  at  Stephen, 
who  was  still  seated  by  her,  hanging  over  her  as  he  leaned  his 
arm  against  the  vessel's  side.  Behind  all  the  delicious  visions 
of  these  last  hours,  which  had  flowed  over  her  like  a  soft 
stream,  and  made  her  entirely  passive,  there  was  the  dim  con- 
sciousness that  the  condition  was  a  transient  one,  and  that  the 
morrow  must  bring  back  the  old  life  of  struggle ;  that  there 
were  thoughts  which  would  presently  avenge  themselves  for 
this  oblivion.  But  now  nothing  was  distinct  to  her ;  she  was 
being  lulled  to  sleep  with  that  soft  stream  still  flowing  over 
her,  with  those  delicious  visions  melting  and  fading  like  the 
wondrous  aerial  land  of  the  west. 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  437 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

WAKING. 

WHEN  Maggie  was  gone  to  sleep,  Stephen,  weary  too  with 
his  unaccustomed  amount  of  rowing,  and  with  the  intense  in- 
ward life  of  the  last  twelve  hours,  but  too  restless  to  sleep, 
walked  and  lounged  about  the  deck  with  his  cigar  far  on  into 
midnight,  not  seeing  the  dark  water,  hardly  conscious  there 
were  stars,  living  only  in  the  near  and  distant  future.  At 
last  fatigue  conquered  restlessness,  and  he  rolled  himself  up 
in  a  piece  of  tarpauling  on  the  deck  near  Maggie's  feet. 

She  had  fallen  asleep  before  nine,  and  had  been  sleeping  for 
six  hours  before  the  faintest  hint  of  a  midsummer  daybreak 
was  discernible.  She  awoke  from  that  vivid  dreaming  which 
makes  the  margin  of  our  deeper  rest.  She  was  in  a  boat  on 
the  wide  water  with  Stephen,  and  in  the  gathering  darkness 
something  like  a  star  appeared,  that  grew  and  grew  till  they 
saw  it  was  the  Virgin  seated  in  St.  Ogg's  boat,  and  it  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  till  they  saw  the  Virgin  was  Lucy  and  the 
boatman  was  Philip,  —  no,  not  Philip,  but  her  brother,  who 
rowed  past  without  looking  at  her ;  and  she  rose  to  stretch 
out  her  arms  and  call  to  him,  and  their  own  boat  turned  over 
with  the  movement,  and  they  began  to  sink,  till  with  one 
spasm  of  dread  she  seemed  to  awake,  and  find  she  was  a 
child  again  in  the  parlour  at  evening  twilight,  and  Tom  was 
not  really  angry.  From  the  soothed  sense  of  that  false  waking 
she  passed  to  the  real  waking,  —  to  the  plash  of  water  against 
the  vessel,  and  the  sound  of  a  footstep  on  the  deck,  and  the 
awful  starlit  sky.  There  was  a  moment  of  utter  bewilder- 
ment before  her  mind  could  get  disentangled  from  the  con- 
fused web  of  dreams ;  but  soon  the  whole  terrible  truth  urged 
itself  upon  her.  Stephen  was  not  by  her  now ;  she  was  alone 
with  her  own  memory  and  her  own  dread.  The  irrevocable 
wrong  that  must  blot  her  life  had  been  committed ;  she  had 
brought  sorrow  into  the  lives  of  others,  —  into  the  lives  that 
were  knit  up  with  hers  by  trust  and  love.  The  feeling  of  a 
few  short  weeks  had  hurried  her  into  the  sins  her  nature  had 
most  recoiled  from,  —  breach  of  faith  and  cruel  selfishness ; 
she  had  rent  the  ties  that  had  given  meaning  to  duty,  and 


438  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

had  made  herself  an  outlawed  soul,  with  no  guide  but  the 
wayward  choice  of  her  own  passion.  And  where  would  that 
lead  her?  Where  had  it  led  her  now?  She  had  said  she 
would  rather  die  than  fall  into  that  temptation.  She  felt  it 
now,  —  now  that  the  consequences  of  such  a  fall  had  com* 
fore  the  outward  act  was  completed.  There  was  at  least  tlii. 
fruit  from  all  her  years  of  striving  after  the  highest  and  best, 
—  that  her  soul,  though  betrayed,  beguiled,  ensnared,  could 
never  deliberately  consent  to  a  choice  of  the  lower.  And  a 
choice  of  what  ?  0  God !  not  a  choice  of  joy,  but  of  con- 
scious cruelty  and  hardness;  for  could  she  ever  cease  to  see 
before  her  Lucy  and  Philip,  with  their  murdered  trust  and 
hopes  ?  Her  life  with  Stephen  could  have  no  sacredness  ;  she 
must  for  ever  sink  and  wander  vaguely,  driven  by  uncertain 
impulse  ;  for  she  had  let  go  the  clue  of  life,  —  that  clue  which 
once  in  the  far-off  years  her  young  need  had  clutched  so 
strongly.  She  had  renounced  all  delights  then,  before  she 
knew  them,  before  they  had  come  within  her  reach.  Philip 
had  been  right  when  he  told  her  that  she  knew  nothing  of  re- 
nunciation ;  she  had  thought  it  was  quiet  ecstasy ;  she  saw  it 
face  to  face  now,  —  that  sad,  patient,  loving  strength  which 
holds  the  clue  of  life,  —  and  saw  that  the  thorns  were  for  ever 
pressing  on  its  brow.  The  yesterday,  which  could  never  lie 
revoked,  —  if  she  could  have  changed  it  now  for  any  length 
of  inward  silent  endurance,  she  would  have  bowed  beneath 
that  cross  with  a  sense  of  rest. 

Daybreak  came  and  the  reddening  eastern  light,  while  her 
past  life  was  grasping  her  in  this  way,  with  that  tightening 
clutch  which  comes  in  the  last  moments  of  possible  rescue. 
She  could  see  Stephen  now  lying  on  the  deck  still  fast  asleep, 
and  with  the  sight  of  him  there  came  a  wave  of  anguish  that 
found  its  way  in  a  long-suppressed  sob.  The  worst  bitterness 
of  parting  —  the  thought  that  urged  the  sharpest  inward  cry 
for  help  —  was  the  pain  it  must  give  to  him.  But  surmounting 
3  very  thing  was  the  horror  at  her  own  possible  failure,  the 
dread  lest  her  conscience  should  be  benumbed  again,  and  not 
rise  to  energy  till  it  was  too  iate.  Too  late !  it  was  too  late 
already  not  to  have  caused  misery ;  too  late  for  everything, 
perhaps,  but  to  rush  away  from  the  last  act  of  baseness,  —  the 
tasting  of  joys  that  were  wrung  from  crushed  hearts. 

The  sun  was  rising  now,  and  Maggie  started  up  with  the 
sense  that  a  day  of  resistance  was  beginning  for  her.  Her 
eyelashes  were  still  wet  with  tears,  as,  with  her  shawl  over 
her  head,  she  sat  looking  at  the  slowly  rounding  sun.  Some- 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  489 

thing  roused  Stephen  too,  and  getting  up  from  his  hard  bed, 
he  came  to  sit  beside  her.  The  sharp  instinct  of  anxious  love 
saw  something  to  give  him  alarm  in  the  very  first  glance.  He 
had  a  hovering  dread  of  some  resistance  in  Maggie's  nature 
that  he  would  be  unable  to  overcome.  He  had  the  uneasy  con- 
sciousness that  he  had  robbed  her  of  perfect  freedom  yester- 
day ;  there  was  too  much  native  honour  in  him,  for  him  not  to 
feel  that,  if  her  will  should  recoil,  his  conduct  would  have 
been  odious,  and  she  would  have  a  right  to  reproach  him. 

But  Maggie  did  not  feel  that  right ;  she  was  too  conscious 
of  fatal  weakness  in  herself,  too  full  of  the  tenderness  that 
comes  with  the  foreseen  need  for  inflicting  a  wound.  She  let 
him  take  her  hand  when  he  came  to  sit  down  beside  her,  and 
smiled  at  him,  only  with  rather  a  sad  glance ;  she  could  say 
nothing  to  pain  him  till  the  moment  of  possible  parting  was 
nearer.  And  so  they  drank  their  cup  of  coffee  together,  and 
walked  about  the  deck,  and  heard  the  captain's  assurance  that 
they  should  be  in  at  Mudport  by  five  o'clock,  each  with  an  in- 
ward burthen ;  but  in  him  it  was  an  undefined  fear,  which  he 
trusted  to  the  coming  hours  to  dissipate  ;  in  her  it  was  a  defi- 
nite resolve  on  which  she  was  trying  silently  to  tighten  her 
hold.  Stephen  was  continually,  through  the  morning,  express- 
ing his  anxiety  at  the  fatigue  and  discomfort  she  was  suffering, 
and  alluded  to  landing  and  to  the  change  of  motion  and  repose 
she  would  have  in  a  carriage,  wanting  to  assure  himself  more 
completely  by  presupposing  that  everything  would  be  as  he 
had  arranged  it.  For  a  long  while  Maggie  contented  herself 
with  assuring  him  that  she  had  had  a  good  night's  rest,  and 
that  she  did  n't  mind  about  being  on  the  vessel,  —  it  was  not 
like  being  on  thB  open  sea,  it  was  only  a  little  less  pleasant 
than  being  in  a  boat  on  the  Floss.  But  a  suppressed  resolve 
will  betray  itself  in  the  eyes,  and  Stephen  became  more  and 
more  uneasy  as  the  day  advanced,  under  the  sense  that  Maggie 
had  entirely  lost  her  passiveness.  He  longed,  but  did  not  dare, 
to  speak  of  their  marriage,  of  where  they  would  go  after  it, 
and  the  steps  he  would  take  to  inform  his  father,  and  the  rest 
of  what  had  happened.  He  longed  to  assure  himself  of  a 
tacit  assent  from  her.  But  each  time  he  looked  at  her,  he 
gathered  a  stronger  dread  of  the  new,  quiet  sadness  with 
which  she  met  his  eyes.  And  they  were  more  and  more 
silent. 

"  Here  we  are  in  sight  of  Mudport,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Now, 
dearest,"  he  added,  turning  towards  her  with  a  look  that  was 
half  beseeching,  "  the  worst  part  of  your  fatigue  is  over.  On 


440  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

the  land  we  can  command  swiftness.  In  another  hour  and  a 
half  we  shall  be  in  a  chaise  together,  and  that  will  seem  rest 
to  you  after  this." 

Maggie  felt  it  was  time  to  speak ;  it  would  only  be  unkind 
now  to  assent  by  silence.  She  spoke  in  the  lowest  tone,  as  he 
had  done,  but  with  distinct  decision. 

"  We  shall  not  be  together ;  we  shall  have  parted." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Stephen's  face. 

«  We  shall  not,"  he  said.     "  I  '11  die  first." 

It  was  as  he  had  dreaded  —  there  was  a  struggle  coming. 
But  neither  of  them  dared  to  say  another  word  till  the  boat 
was  let  down,  and  they  were  taken  to  the  landing-place.  Here 
there  was  a  cluster  of  gazers  and  passengers  awaiting  the  de- 
parture of  the  steamboat  to  St.  Ogg's.  Maggie  had  a  dim 
sense,  when  she  had  landed,  and  Stephen  was  hurrying  her 
along  on  his  arm,  that  some  one  had  advanced  towards  her  from 
that  cluster  as  if  he  were  coming  to  speak  to  her.  But  she 
was  hurried  along,  and  was  indifferent  to  everything  but  the 
coming  trial. 

A  porter  guided  them  to  the  nearest  inn  and  posting-house, 
and  Stephen  gave  the  order  for  the  chaise  as  they  passed 
through  the  yard.  Maggie  took  no  notice  of  this,  and  only 
said,  "  Ask  them  to  show  us  into  a  room  where  we  can  sit 
down." 

When  they  entered,  Maggie  did  not  sit  down,  and  Stephen, 
whose  face  had  a  desperate  determination  in  it,  was  about  to 
ring  the  bell,  when  she  said,  in  a  firm  voice,  — 

"  I  'm  not  going ;  we  must  part  here." 

"Maggie,"  he  said,  turning  round  towards  her,  and  speak- 
ing in  the  tones  of  a  man  who  feels  a  process  of  torture  be- 
ginning, "  do  you  mean  to  kill  me  ?  What  is  the  use  of  it 
now  ?  The  whole  thing  is  done." 

"  No,  it  is  not  done,"  said  Maggie.  "  Too  much  is  done,  — 
more  than  we  can  ever  remove  the  trace  of.  But  I  will  go 
no  farther.  Don't  try  to  prevail  with  me  again.  I  could  n't 
choose  yesterday." 

What  was  he  to  do  ?  He  dared  not  go  near  her ;  her  anger 
might  leap  out,  and  make  a  new  barrier.  He  walked  back- 
wards and  forwards  in  maddening  perplexity. 

"  Maggie,"  he  said  at  last,  pausing  before  her,  and  speaking 
in  a  tone  of  imploring  wretchedness,  "  have  some  pity  —  hear 
me  —  forgive  me  for  what  I  did  yesterday.  I  will  obey  you 
now ;  I  will  do  nothing  without  your  full  consent.  But  don't 
blight  our  lives  for  ever  by  a  rash  perversity  that  can  answer 


THE    GREAT   TEMPTATION.  441 

no  good  purpose  to  any  one,  that  can  only  create  new  evils. 
Sit  down,  dearest ;  wait  —  think  what  you  are  going  to  do. 
Don't  treat  me  as  if  you  couldn't  trust  me." 

He  had  chosen  the  most  effective  appeal ;  but  Maggie's  will 
was  fixed  unswervingly  on  the  coming  wrench.  She  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  suffer. 

"  We  must  not  wait,"  she  said,  in  a  low  but  distinct  voice; 
"  we  must  part  at  once." 

"  We  can't  part,  Maggie,"  said  Stephen,  more  impetuously. 
"  I  can't  bear  it.  What  is  the  use  of  inflicting  that  misery 
on  me  ?  The  blow  —  whatever  it  may  have  been  —  has  been 
struck  now.  Will  it  help  any  one  else  that  you  should  drive 
me  mad  ?  " 

"'I  will  not  begin  any  future,  even  for  you,"  said  Maggie, 
tremulously,  "  with  a  deliberate  consent  to  what  ought  not  to 
have  been.  What  I  told  you  at  Basset  I  feel  now ;  I  would 
rather  have  died  than  fall  into  this  temptation.  It  would  have 
been  better  if  we  had  parted  for  ever  then.  But  we  must  part 
now." 

"  We  will  not  part,"  Stephen  burst  out,  instinctively  placing 
his  back  against  the  door,  forgetting  everything  he  had  said 
a  few  moments  before  ;  "  I  will  not  endure  it.  You  '11  make 
me  desperate ;  I  sha'n't  know  what  I  do." 

Maggie  trembled.  She  felt  that  the  parting  could  not  be 
effected  suddenly.  She  must  rely  on  a  slower  appeal  to  Ste- 
phen's better  self;  she  must  be  prepared  for  a  harder  task 
than  that  of  rushing  away  while  resolution  was  fresh.  She 
sat  down.  Stephen,  watching  her  with  that  look  of  despera- 
tion which  had  come  over  him  like  a  lurid  light,  approached 
slowly  from  the  door,  seated  himself  close  beside  her,  and 
grasped  her  hand.  Her  heart  beat  like  the  heart  of  a  fright- 
ened bird  ;  but  this  direct  opposition  helped  her.  She  felt  her 
determination  growing  stronger. 

"  Remember  what  jon  felt  weeks  ago,"  she  began,  with  be- 
seeching earnestness  ;  "  remember  what  we  both  felt,  —  that 
we  owed  ourselves  to  others,  and  must  conquer  every  inclina- 
tion which  could  make  us  false  to  that  debt.  We  have  failed 
to  keep  our  resolutions  ;  but  the  wrong  remains  the  same." 

"No,  it  does  not  remain  the  same,"  said  Stephen.  "We 
have  proved  that  it  was  impossible  to  keep  our  resolutions. 
We  have  proved  that  the  feeling  which  draws  us  towards  each 
other  is  too  strong  to  be  overcome.  That  natural  law  surmounts 
every  other  ;  we  can't  help  what  it  clashes  with." 

"  It  is  not  so,  Stephen ;  I  'm  quite  sure  that  is  wrong.     I 


442  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

have  tried  to  think  it  again  and  again ;  but  T  see,  if  we  judged 
in  that  way,  there  would  be  a  warrant  for  all  treachery  and 
cruelty ;  we  should  justify  breaking  the  most  sacred  ties  that 
can  ever  be  formed  on  earth.  If  the  past  is  not  to  bind  us, 
where  can  duty  lie  ?  We  should  have  no  law  but  the  incli- 
nation of  the  moment." 

"But  there  are  ties  that  can't  be  kept  by  mere  resolution," 
said  Stephen,  starting  up  and  walking  about  again.  "  What  is 
outward  faithfulness  ?  Would  they  have  thanked  us  for  any- 
thing so  hollow  as  constancy  without  love  ?  " 

Maggie  did  not  answer  immediately.  She  was  undergoing 
an  inward  as  well  as  an  outward  contest.  At  last  she  said, 
with  a  passionate  assertion  of  her  conviction,  as  much  against 
herself  as  against  him, — 

"  That  seems  right  —  at  first ;  but  when  I  look  further,  I  'm 
sure  it  is  not  right.  Faithfulness  and  constancy  mean  some- 
thing else  besides  doing  what  is  easiest  and  pleasantest  to  our- 
selves. They  mean  renouncing  whatever  is  opposed  to  the 
reliance  others  have  in  us,  —  whatever  would  cause  misery  to 
those  whom  the  course  of  our  lives  has  made  dependent  on  us. 
If  we  —  if  I  had  been  better,  nobler,  those  claims  would  have 
been  so  strongly  present  with  me,  —  I  should  have  felt  them 
pressing  on  my  heart  so  continually,  just  as  they  do  now  in  the 
moments  when  my  conscience  is  awake, — that  the  opposite 
feeling  would  never  have  grown  in  me,  as  it  has  done ;  it  would 
have  been  quenched  at  once,  I  should  have  prayed  for  help  so 
earnestly,  I  should  have  rushed  away  as  we  rush  from  hideous 
danger.  I  feel  no  excuse  for  myself,  none.  I  should  never 
have  failed  towards  Lucy  and  Philip  as  I  have  done,  if  I  had 
not  been  weak,  selfish,  and  hard,  —  able  to  think  of  their 
pain  without  a  pain  to  myself  that  would  have  destroyed  all 
temptation.  Oh,  what  is  Lucy  feeling  now  ?  She  believed 
in  me  —  she  loved  me  —  she  was  so  good  to  me.  Think  of 
her  —  " 

Maggie's  voice  was  getting  choked  as  she  uttered  these  last 
words. 

"  I  can't  think  of  her,"  said  Stephen,  stamping  as  if  with 
pain.  "  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  you,  Maggie.  You  de- 
mand of  a  man  what  is  impossible.  I  felt  that  once ;  but  I 
can't  go  back  to  it  now.  And  where  is  the  use  of  your  think- 
ing of  it,  except  to  torture  me  ?  You  can't  save  them  from 
pain  now ;  you  can  only  tear  yourself  from  me,  and  make  my 
life  worthless  to  me.  And  even  if  we  could  go  back,  and  both 
fulfil  our  engagements,  —  if  that  were  possible  now,  —  it  would 


THE    GREAT   TEMPTATION1.  443 

be  hateful,  horrible,  to  think  of  your  ever  being  Philip's 
wife,  —  of  your  ever  being  the  wife  of  a  man  you  did  n't  love. 
We  have  both  been  rescued  from  a  mistake." 

A  deep  flush  came  over  Maggie's  face,  and  she  couldn't 
speak.  Stephen  saw  this.  He  sat  down  again,  taking  her 
hand  in  his,  and  looking  at  her  with  passionate  entreaty. 

"Maggie  !  Dearest !  If  you  love  me,  you  are  mine.  Who 
can  have  so  great  a  claim  on  you  as  I  have  ?  My  life  is  bound 
up  in  your  love.  There  is  nothing  in  the  past  that  can  annul 
our  right  to  each  other ;  it  is  the  first  time  we  have  either  of 
us  loved  with  our  whole  heart  and  soul." 

Maggie  was  still  silent  for  a  little  while,  looking  down. 
Stephen  was  in  a  flutter  of  new  hope  ;  he  was  going  to  triumph. 
But  she  raised  her  eyes  and  met  his  with  a  glance  that  was 
filled  with  the  anguish  of  regret,  not  with  yielding. 

"  Xo,  not  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul,  Stephen,"  she 
said,  with  timid  resolution.  "  I  have  never  consented  to  it 
with  my  whole  mind.  There  are  memories,  and  affections, 
and  longings  after  perfect  goodness,  that  have  such  a  strong 
hold  on  me ;  they  would  never  quit  me  for  long ;  they  would 
come  back  and  be  pain  to  me  —  repentance.  I  could  n't  live 
in  peace  if  I  put  the  shadow  of  a  wilful  sin  between  myself 
and  God.  I  have  caused  sorrow  already  —  I  know  —  I  feel 
it ;  but  I  have  never  deliberately  consented  to  it ;  I  have  never 
said,  'They  shall  suffer,  that  I  may  have  joy.'  It  has  never 
been  my  will  to  marry  you ;  if  you  were  to  win  consent  from 
the  momentary  triumph  of  my  feeling  for  you,  you  would  not 
have  my  whole  soul.  If  I  could  wake  back  again  into  the  time 
before  yesterday,  I  would  choose  to  be  true  to  my  calmer  affec- 
tions, and  live  without  the  joy  of  love." 

Stephen  loosed  her  hand,  and  rising  impatiently,  walked  up 
and  down  the  room  in  suppressed  rage. 

"  Good  God ! "  he  burst  out  at  last,  "  what  a  miserable 
thing  a  woman's  love  is  to  a  man's  !  I  could  commit  crimes 
for  you,  —  and  you  can  balance  and  choose  in  that  way.  But 
you  don't  love  me ;  if  you  had  a  tithe  of  the  feeling  for  me 
that  I  have  for  you,  it  would  be  impossible  to  you  to  think  for 
a  moment  of  sacrificing  me.  But  it  weighs  nothing  with  you 
that  you  are  robbing  me  of  my  life's  happiness." 

Maggie  pressed  her  fingers  together  almost  convulsively  as 
she  held  them  clasped  on  her  lap.  A  great  terror  was  upon 
her,  as  if  she  were  ever  and  anon  seeing  where  she  stood  by 
great  flashes  of  lightning,  and  then  again  stretched  forth  her 
hands  in  the  darkness. 


444  THE   MILL    ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"No,  I  don't  sacrifice  you —  I  couldn't  sacrifice  you,"  she 
said,  as  soon  as  she  could  speak  again ;  "but  I  can't  believe  in 
a  good  for  you,  that  I  feel  that  we  both  feel,  is  a  wrong, 
towards  others.  We  can't  choose  happiness  either  for  our- 
selves or  for  another ;  we  can't  tell  where  that  will  lie.  We 
can  only  choose  whether  we  will  indulge  ourselves  in  the  pres- 
ent moment,  or  whether  we  will  renounce  that,  for  the  sake 
of  obeying  the  divine  voice  within  us,  —  for  the  sake  of  being 
true  to  all  the  motives  that  sanctify  our  lives.  I  know  this  belief 
is  hard ;  it  has  slipped  away  from  me  again  and  again ;  but  1 
have  felt  that  if  I  let  it  go  for  ever,  I  should  have  no  light 
through  the  darkness  of  this  life." 

"  But,  Maggie,"  said  Stephen,  seating  himself  by  her  again, 
"is  it  possible  you  don't  see  that  what  happened  yesterday 
has  altered  the  whole  position  of  things  ?  What  infatuation 
is  it,  what  obstinate  prepossession,  that  blinds  you  to  that  ? 
It  is  too  late  to  say  what  we  might  have  done  or  what  we 
ought  to  have  done.  Admitting  the  very  worst  view  of 
'what  has  been  done,  it  is  a  fact  we  must  act  on  now ;  our 
position  is  altered;  the  right  course  is  no  longer  what  it  was 
before.  We  must  accept  our  own  actions  and  start  afresh 
from  them.  Suppose  we  had  been  married  yesterday  ?  It  is 
nearly  the  same  thing.  The  effect  on  others  would  not  have 
been  different.  It  would  only  have  made  this  difference  to 
ourselves,"  Stephen  added  bitterly,  "that  you  might  have 
acknowledged  then  that  your  tie  to  me  was  stronger  than  to 
others." 

Again  a  deep  flush  came  over  Maggie's  face,  and  she  was 
silent.  Stephen  thought  again  that  he  was  beginning  to  pre- 
vail, —  he  had  never  yet  believed  that  he  should  not  prevail ; 
there  are  possibilities  which  our  minds  shrink  from  too  com- 
pletely for  us  to  fear  them. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  in  his  deepest,  tenderest  tone,  leaning 
towards  her,  and  putting  his  arm  round  her,  "you  are  mine 
now,  —  the  world  believes  it ;  duty  must  spring  out  of  that 
now  In  a  few  hours  you  will  be  legally  mine,  and  those  who 
had  claims  on  us  will  submit,  —  they  will  see  that  there  was  a 
force  which  declared  against  their  claims." 

Maggie's  eyes  opened  wide  in  one  terrified  look  at  the  face 
that  was  close  to  hers,  and  she  started  up,  pale  again. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  do  it,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  almost  of  agony ; 
"  Stephen,  don't  ask  me  —  don't  urge  me.  I  can't  argue  any 
longer,  —  I  don't  know  what  is  wise ;  but  my  heart  will  not 
let  me  do  it.  I  see,  —  I  feel  their  trouble  now ;  it  is  as  if  it 


THE   GREAT   TEMPTATION.  445 

were  branded  on  my  mind.  /  have  suffered,  and  had  no  one 
to  pity  me ;  and  now  I  have  made  others  suffer.  It  would 
never  leave  me  ;  it  would  embitter  your  love  to  me.  I  do  care 
for  Philip  —  in  a  different  way ;  I  remember  all  we  said  to 
each  other ;  I  know  how  he  thought  of  me  as  the  one  promise 
of  his  life.  He  was  given  to  me  that  I  might  make  his  lot  less 
hard ;  and  I  have  forsaken  him.  And  Lucy  —  she  has  been 
deceived,  —  she  who  trusted  me  more  than  any  one.  I  cannot 
marry  you;  I  cannot  take  a  good  for  myself  that  has  been 
wrung  out  of  their  misery.  It  is  not  the  force  that  ought  to 
rule  us, — this  that  we  feel  for  each  other;  it  would  rend  me 
away  from  all  that  my  past  life  has  made  dear  and  holy  to  me. 
I  can't  set  out  on  a  fresh  life,  and  forget  that ;  I  must  go  back 
to  it,  and  cling  to  it,  else  I  shall  feel  as  if  there  were  nothing 
firm  beneath  my  feet." 

"  Good  God,  Maggie  !  "  said  Stephen,  rising  too  and  grasping 
her  arm,  "  you  rave.  How  can  you  go  back  without  marrying 
me  ?  You  don't  know  what  will  be  said,  dearest.  You  see 
nothing  as  it  really  is." 

"  Yes,  I  do.  But  they  will  believe  me.  I  will  confess  every- 
thing. Lucy  will  believe  me  —  she  will  forgive  you,  and 
—  and  —  oh,  some  good  will  come  by  clinging  to  the  right. 
Dear,  dear  Stephen,  let  me  go!  —  don't  drag  me  into  deeper 
remorse.  My  whole  soul  has  never  consented ;  it  does  not 
consent  now." 

Stephen  let  go  her  arm,  and  sank  back  on  his  chair,  half- 
stunned  by  despairing  rage.  He  was  silent  a  few  moments, 
not  looking  at  her;  while  her  eyes  were  turned  towards 
him  yearningly,  in  alarm  at  this  sudden  change.  At  last 
he  said,  still  without  looking  at  her, — 

"  Go,  then,  —  leave  me ;  don't  torture  me  any  longer,  —  I 
can't  bear  it." 

Involuntarily  she  leaned  towards  him  and  put  out  her  hand 
to  touch  his.  But  he  shrank  from  it  as  if  it  had  been  burning 
iron,  and  said  again,  — 

"  Leave  me." 

Maggie  was  not  conscious  of  a  decision  as  she  turned  away 
from  that  gloomy  averted  face,  and  walked  out  of  the  room ; 
it  was  like  an  automatic  action  that  fulfils  a  forgotten  inten- 
tion. What  came  after  ?  A  sense  of  stairs  descended  as  if 
in  a  dream,  of  flagstones,  of  a  chaise  and  horses  standing, 
then  a  street,  and  a  turning  into  another  street  where  a  stage- 
coach was  standing,  taking  in  passengers,  and  the  darting 
thought  that  that  coach  would  take  her  away,  perhaps  towards 


446  THE   MILL    ON   THE  FLOSS. 

home.  But  she  could  ask  nothing  yet ;  she  only  got  into  the 
coach. 

Home  —  where  her  mother  and  brother  were,  Philip,  Lucy. 
the  scene  of  her  very  cares  and  trials  —  was  the  haven 
towards  which  her  mind  tended ;  the  sanctuary  where  sacred 
relics  lay,  where  she  would  be  rescued  from  more  falling. 
The  thought  of  Stephen  was  like  a  horrible  throbbing  pain, 
which  yet,  as  such  pains  do,  seemed  to  urge  all  other  thoughts 
into  activity.  But  among  her  thoughts,  what  others  would 
say  and  think  of  her  conduct  was  hardly  present.  Love  and 
deep  pity  and  remorseful  anguish  left  no  room  for  that. 

The  coach  was  taking  her  to  York,  farther  away  from 
home ;  but  she  did  not  learn  that  until  she  was  set  down 
in  the  old  city  at  midnight.  It  was  no  matter ;  she  could 
sleep  there,  and  start  home  the  next  day.  She  had  her  purse 
in  her  pocket,  with  all  her  money  in  it,  —  a  bank-note  and 
a  sovereign;  she  had  kept  it  in  her  pocket  from  forgetfulneas, 
after  going  out  to  make  purchases  the  day  before  yesterday. 

Did  she  lie  down  in  the  gloomy  bedroom  of  the  old  inn  that 
night  with  her  will  bent  unwaveringly  on  the  path  of  penitent 
sacrifice  ?  The  great  struggles  of  life  are  not  so  easy  as  that ; 
the  great  problems  of  life  are  not  so  clear.  In  the  darkness 
of  that  night  she  saw  Stephen's  face  turned  towards  her  in 
passionate,  reproachful  misery  ;  she  lived  through  again  all 
the  tremulous  delights  of  his  presence  with  her  that  made  ex- 
istence an  easy  floating  in  a  stream  of  joy,  instead  of  a  quiet 
resolved  endurance  and  effort.  The  love  she  had  renounced 
came  back  upon  her  with  a  cruel  charm  ;  she  felt  herself  open- 
ing her  arms  to  receive  it  once  more ;  and  then  it  seemed  to 
slip  away  and  fade  and  vanish,  leaving  only  the  dying  sound 
of  a  deep,  thrilling  voice  that  said,  "  Gone,  for  ever  gone." 


BOOK    VII. 

THE   FINAL   RESCUE. 
CHAPTER   I. 

THE    RETURN    TO    THE    MILL. 

BETWEEN  four  and  five  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth 
day  from  that  on  which  Stephen  and  Maggie  had  left  St.  Ogg's, 
Tom  Tulliver  was  standing  on  the  gravel-walk  outside  the  old 
house  at  Dorlcote  Mill.  He  was  master  there  now;  he  had 
half  fulfilled  his  father's  dying  wish,  and  by  years  of  steady 
self-government  and  energetic  work  he  had  brought  himself 
near  to  the  attainment  of  more  than  the  old  respectability 
which  had  been  the  proud  inheritance  of  the  Dodsons  and 
Tullivers. 

But  Tom's  face,  as  he  stood  in  the  hot,  still  sunshine  of  that 
summer  afternoon,  had  no  gladness,  no  triumph  in  it.  His 
mouth  wore  its  bitterest  expression,  his  severe  brow  its  hardest 
and  deepest  fold,  as  he  drew  down  his  hat  farther  over  his  eyes 
to  shelter  them  from  the  sun,  and  thrusting  his  hands  deep 
into  his  pockets,  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  gravel.  No 
news  of  his  sister  had  been  heard  since  Bob  Jakin  had  come 
back  in  the  steamer  from  Mudport,  and  put  an  end  to  all  im- 
probable suppositions  of  an  accident  on  the  water  by  stating 
that  he  had  seen  her  land  from  a  vessel  with  Mr.  Stephen 
Guest.  Would  the  next  news  be  that  she  was  married,  —  or 
what  ?  Probably  that  she  was  not  married  ,  Tonvs  mind  was 
set  to  the  expectation  of  the  worst  that  could  happen,  —  not 
death,  but  disgrace. 

As  he  was  walking  with  his  back  towards  the  entrance  gate, 
and  his  face  towards  the  rushing  mill-stream,  a  tall,  dark-eyed 
figure  that  we  know  well,  approached  the  gate,  and  paused  to 
look  at  him  with  a  fast-beating  heart.  Her  brother  was  the 
human  being  of  whom  she  had  been  most  afraid  from  her 
childhood  upwards ;  afraid  with  that  fear  which  springs  in  us 


448  THE   MILL    ON    THE   FLOSS. 

when  we  love  one  who  is  inexorable,  unbending,  unmodifiable, 
with  a  mind  that  we  can  never  mould  ourselves  upon,  and  \  <•(. 
that  we  cannot  endure  to  alienate  from  us.  Thai  deep-rooted 
fear  was  shaking  Maggie  now;  but  her  mind  was  unsv. 
bent  on  returning  to  her  brother,  as  the  natural  refuge  that 
had  been  given  her.  In  her  deep  humiliation  under  the  retro- 
spect of  her  own  weakness, — in  her  anguish  at  the  injury 
she  had  inflicted,  —  she  almost  desired  to  endure  the  severity 
of  Tom's  reproof,  to  submit  in  patient  silence  to  that  harsh, 
disapproving  judgment  against  which  she  had  so  often  re- 
belled; it  seemed  no  more  than  just  to  her  now,  —  who 
was  weaker  than  she  was  ?  She  craved  that  outward  help 
to  her  better  purpose  which  would  come  from  complete,  sub- 
missive confession;  from  being  in  the  presence  of  those 
whose  looks  and  words  would  be  a  reflection  of  her  own 
conscience. 

Maggie  had  been  kept  on  her  bed  at  York  for  a  day  with 
that  prostrating  headache  which  was  likely  to  follow  on  the 
terrible  strain  of  the  previous  day  and  night.  There  was  an 
expression  of  physical  pain  still  about  her  brow  and  eyes,  and 
her  whole  appearance,  with  her  dress  so  long  unchanged,  was 
worn  and  distressed.  She  lifted  the  latch  of  the  gate  and 
walked  in  slowly.  Tom  did  not  hear  the  gate  ;  he  was  just 
then  close  upon  the  roaring  dam;  but  he  presently  turned, 
and  lifting,  up  his  eyes,  saw  the  figure  whose  worn  look  and 
loneliness  seemed  to  him  a  confirmation  of  his  worst  con- 
jectures. He  paused,  trembling  and  white  with  disgust  and 
indignation. 

Maggie  paused  too,  three  yards  before  him.  She  felt  the 
hatred  in  his  face,  felt  it  rushing  through  her  fibres ;  but  she 
must  speak. 

"  Tom,"  she  began  faintly,  "  I  am  come  back  to  you,  —  I 
am  come  back  home  —  for  refuge  —  to  tell  you  everything." 

"You  will  find  no  home  with  me,"  he  answered,  with  trem- 
ulous rage.  "You  have  disgraced  us  all.  You  have  dis- 
graced my  father's  name.  You  have  been  a  curse  to  your 
best  friends.  You  have  been  base,  deceitful ;  no  motives 
are  strong  enough  to  restrain  you.  I  wash  my  hands  of  you 
for  ever.  You  don't  belong  to  me." 

Their  mother  had  come  to  the  door  now.  She  stood  par- 
alysed by  the  double  shock  of  seeing  Maggie  and  hearing 
Tom's  words. 

"Tom,"  said  Maggie,  with  more  courage,  "I  am  perhaps 
not  so  guilty  as  you  believe  me  to  be.  I  never  meant  to 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  449 

give  way  to  my  feelings.  I  struggled  against  them.  I  was 
carried  too  far  in  the  boat  to  come  back  on  Tuesday.  I 
came  back  as  soon  as  I  could." 

"I  can't  believe  in  you  any  more,"  said  Tom,  gradually 
passing  from  the  tremulous  excitement  of  the  first  moment 
to  cold  inflexibility.  "You  have  been  carrying  on  a  clan- 
destine relation  with  Stephen  Guest,  —  as  you  did  before 
with  another.  He  went  to  see  you  at  my  aunt  Moss's ;  you 
walked  alone  with  him  in  the  lanes  ;  you  must  have  be- 
haved as  no  modest  girl  would  have  done  to  her  cousin's 
lover,  else  that  could  never  have  happened.  The  people  at 
Luckreth  saw  you  pass ;  you  passed  all  the  other  places ; 
you  knew  what  you  were  doing.  You  have  been  using' 
Philip  Wakem  as  a  screen  to  deceive  Lucy,  —  the  kindest 
friend  you  ever  had.  Go  and  see  the  return  you  have 
made  her.  She 's  ill ;  unable  to  speak.  My  mother  can't 
go  near  her,  lest  she  should  remind  her  of  you." 

Maggie  was  half  stunned, — too  heavily  pressed  upon  by 
her  anguish  even  to  discern  any  difference  between  her  ac- 
tual guilt  and  her  brother's  accusations,  still  less  to  vin- 
dicate herself. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  crushing  her  hands  together  under  her 
cloak,  in  the  effort  to  speak  again,  "  whatever  I  have  done, 
I  repent  it  bitterly.  I  want  to  make  amends.  I  will  endure 
anything.  I  want  to  be  kept  from  doing  wrong  again." 

"  What  will  keep  you  ?  "  said  Tom,  with  cruel  bitterness. 
"  Not  religion ;  not  your  natural  feelings  of  gratitude  and 
honour.  And  he  —  he  would  deserve  to  be  shot,  if  it  were 
not —  But  you  are  ten  times  worse  than  he  is.  I  loathe 
your  character  and  your  conduct.  You  struggled  with  your 
feelings,  you  say.  Yes !  /  have  had  feelings  to  struggle 
with  ;  but  I  conquered  them.  I  have  had  a  harder  life  than 
you  have  had ;  but  I  have  found  my  comfort  in  doing  my 
duty.  But  I  will  sanction  no  such  character  as  yours ;  the 
world  shall  know  that  /  feel  the  difference  between  right 
and  wrong.  If  you  are  in  want,  I  will  provide  for  you; 
let  my  mother  know.  But  you  shall  not  come  under  my 
roof.  It  is  enough  that  I  have  to  bear  the  thought  of  your 
disgrace;  the  sight  of  you  is  hateful  to  me." 

Slowly  Maggie  was  turning  away  with  despair  in  her  heart. 
But  the  poor  frightened  mother's  love  leaped  out  now,  stronger 
than  all  dread. 

"  My  child  !  I  '11  go  with  you.     You  've  got  a  mother." 

Oh,  the  sweet  rest  of  that  embrace  to  the  heart-stricken 

89 


450  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Maggie!  More  helpful  than  all  wisdom  is  one  draught  of 
simple  human  pity  that  will  not  forsake  us. 

Tom  turned  and  walked  into  the  house. 

"Come  in,  my  child,"  Mrs.  Tulliver  whispered.  "He'll  let 
you  stay  and  sleep  in  niy  bed.  He  won't  deny  that  if  I  ask 
him." 

"  No,  mother,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  low  tone,  like  a  moan.  "  I 
will  never  go  in." 

"  Then  wait  for  me  outside.  I  '11  get  ready  and  come  with 
you." 

When  his  mother  appeared  with  her  bonnet  on,  Tom  came 
out  to  her  in  the  passage,  and  put  money  into  her  hands. 

"  My  house  is  yours,  mother,  always,"  he  said.  "  You  will 
come  and  let  rue  know  everything  you  want ;  you  will  come 
back  to  me." 

Poor  Mrs.  Tulliver  took  the  money,  too  frightened  to  say 
anything.  The  only  thing  clear  to  her  was  the  mother's  in- 
stinct that  she  would  go  with  her  unhappy  child. 

Maggie  was  waiting  outside  the  gate ;  she  took  her  mother's 
hand,  and  they  walked  a  little  way  in  silence. 

"  Mother,"  said  Maggie,  at  last,  "  we  will  go  to  Luke's  cot- 
tage. Luke  will  take  me  in.  He  was  very  good  to  me  when 
I  was  a  little  girl." 

"  He 's  got  no  room  for  us,  my  dear,  now ;  his  wife  's  got 
so  many  children.  I  don't  know  where  to  go,  if  it  is  n't  to  one 
o'  your  aunts;  and  I  hardly  durst,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver, 
quite  destitute  of  mental  resources  in  this  extremity. 

Maggie  was  silent  a  little  while,  and  then  said,  — 

"  Let  us  go  to  Bob  Jakin's,  mother ;  his  wife  will  have  room 
for  us,  if  they  have  no  other  lodger." 

So  they  went  on  their  way  to  St.  Ogg's,  to  the  old  house 
by  the  river-side. 

Bob  himself  was  at  home,  with  a  heaviness  at  heart  which 
resisted  even  the  new  joy  and  pride  of  possessing  a  two  months' 
old  baby,  quite  the  liveliest  of  its  age  that  h;id  ever  been  horn 
to  prince  or  packman.  He  would  perhaps  not  so  thoroughly 
have  understood  all  the  dubiousness  of  Maggie's  appeal-am •<• 
witli  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  on  the  quay  at  Mudport  if  he  had  not 
witnessed  the  effect  it  produced  on  Tom  when  he  went  to  re- 
port it ;  and  since  then,  the  circumstances  which  in  any  case 
gave  a  disastrous  character  to  her  elopement  had  passed  be- 
yond the  more  polite  circles  of  St.  Ogg's,  and  had  become 
matter  of  common  talk,  accessible  to  the  grooms  and  errand- 
boys.  So  that  when  he  opened  the  door  and  saw  Maggie 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  451 

standing  before  him  in  her  sorrow  and  weariness,  he  had  no 
questions  to  ask  except  one  which  he  dared  only  ask  himself,  — • 
where  was  Mr.  Stephen  Guest  ?  Bob,  for  his  part,  hoped  he 
might  be  in  the  warmest  department  of  an  asylum  understood 
to  exist  in  the  other  world  for  gentlemen  who  are  likely  to  be 
in  fallen  circumstances  there. 

The  lodgings  were  vacant,  and  both  Mrs.  Jakin  the  larger 
and  Mrs.  Jakin  the  less  were  commanded  to  make  all  things 
comfortable  for  "  the  old  Missis  and  the  young  Miss ; "  alas 
that  she  was  still  "  Miss  "  !  The  ingenious  Bob  was  sorely  per- 
plexed as  to  how  this  result  could  have  come  about;  how  Mr. 
btephen  Guest  could  have  gone  away  from  her,  or  could  have 
let  her  go  away  from  him,  when  he  had  the  chance  of  keeping 
her  with  him.  But  he  was  silent,  and  would  not  allow  his 
wife  to  ask  him  a  question ;  would  not  present  himself  in  the 
room,  lest  it  should  appear  like  intrusion  and  a  wish  to  pry ; 
having  the  same  chivalry  towards  dark-eyed  Maggie  as  in 
the  days  when  he  had  bought  her  the  memorable  present  of 
books. 

But  after  a  day  or  two  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  gone  to  the  Mill 
again  for  a  few  hours  to  see  to  Tom's  household  matters. 
Maggie  had  wished  this;  after  the  first  violent  outburst  of 
feeling  which  came  as  soon  as  she  had  no  longer  any  active 
purpose  to  fulfil,  she  was  less  in  need  of  her  mother's  pres- 
ence ;  she  even  desired  to  be  alone  with  her  grief.  But  she 
had  been  solitary  only  a  little  while  in  the  old  sitting-room 
that  looked  on  the  river,  when  there  came  a  tap  at  the  door, 
and  turning  round  her  sad  face  as  she  said  "Come  in,"  she 
saw  Bob  enter,  with  the  baby  in  his  arms  and  Mumps  at  his 
heels. 

"  We  '11  go  back,  if  it  disturbs  you,  Miss,"  said  Bob. 

"  No,"  said  Maggie,  in  a  low  voice,  wishing  she  could  smile. 

Bob,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  came  and  stood  before 
her. 

"  You  see,  we  've  got  a  little  un,  Miss,  and  I  wanted  you  to 
look  at  it,  and  take  it  in  your  arms,  if  you  'd  be  so  good.  For 
we  made  free  to  name  it  after  you,  and  it  'ud  be  better  for  your 
takin'  a  bit  o'  notice  on  it." 

Maggie  could  not  speak,  but  she  put  out  her  arms  to  receive 
the  tiny  baby,  while  Mumps  snuffed  at  it  anxiously,  to  ascer- 
tain that  this  transference  was  all  right.  Maggie's  heart  had 
swelled  at  this  action  and  speech  of  Bob's ;  she  knew  well 
enough  that  it  was  a  way  he  had  chosen  to  show  his  sympathy 
and  respect. 


452  THE  MILL   ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"Sit  down,  Bob,"  she  said  presently,  and  he  sat  down  in 
silence,  finding  his  tongue  unmanageable  in  quite  a  new 
fashion,  refusing  to  say  what  he  wanted  it  to  say. 

"  Bob,"  she  said,  after  a  few  moments,  looking  down  at  the 
baby,  and  holding  it  anxiously,  as  if  she  feared  it  might  slip 
from  her  mind  and  her  fingers,  "I  have  a  favour  to  ask  of 
you." 

"  Don't  you  speak  so,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  grasping  the  skin  of 
Muinps's  neck ;  "  if  there 's  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  I  should 
look  upon  it  as  a  day's  earnings." 

"  I  want  you  to  go  to  Dr.  Kenn's,  and  ask  to  speak  to  him, 
and  tell  him  that  I  am  here,  and  should  be  very  grateful  if  he 
would  come  to  me  while  my  mother  is  away.  She  will  not 
come  back  till  evening." 

"Eh,  Miss,  I  'd  do  it  in  a  minute, — it  is  but  a  step, — but  Dr. 
Kenn's  wife  lies  dead ;  she 's  to  be  buried  to-morrow  ;  died  the 
day  I  come  from  Mudport.  It 's  all  the  more  pity  she  should 
ha'  died  just  now,  if  you  want  him.  I  hardly  like  to  go  a-nigh 
him  yet." 

"  Oh  no,  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  "  we  must  let  it  be,  —  till  after 
a  few  days,  perhaps,  when  you  hear  that  he  is  going  about 
again.  But  perhaps  he  may  be  going  out  of  town  —  to  a  dis- 
tance," she  added,  with  a  new  sense  of  despondency  at  this 
idea. 

"  Not  he,  Miss,"  said  Bob.  "  He  'II  none  go  away.  He  is  n't 
one  o'  them  gentlefolks  as  go  to  cry  at  waterin'-places  when 
their  wives  die ;  he  's  got  summat  else  to  do.  He  looks  fine 
an'  sharp  after  the  parish,  he  does.  He  christened  the  little 
un ;  an'  he  was  at  me  to  know  what  I  did  of  a  Sunday,  as  I 
didn't  come  to  church.  But  I  told  him  I  was  upo'  the 
travel  three  parts  o'  the  Sundays,  —  an'  then  I  'm  so  used  to 
bein'  on  my  legs,  I  can't  sit  so  long  on  end,  —  '  an'  lors,  sir,' 
says  I,  '  a  packman  can  do  wi'  a  small  'lowance  o'  church ; 
it  tastes  strong,'  says  I;  'there's  no  call  to  lay  it  on  thick.' 
Eh,  Miss,  how  good, the  little  un  is  wi'  you  !  It's  like  as  if  it 
knowed  you;  it  partly  does,  I'll  be  bound,  —  like  the  birds 
know  the  mornin'." 

Bob's  tongue  was  now  evidently  loosed  from  its  unwonted 
bondage,  and  might  even  be  in  danger  of  doing  more  work 
than  was  required  of  it.  But  the  subjects  on  which  he  longed 
to  be  informed  were  so  steep  and  difficult  of  approach,  that 
his  tongue  was  likely  to  run  on  along  the  level  rather  than  to 
carry  him  on  that  unbeaten  road.  He  felt  this,  and  was  silent 
again  for  a  little  while,  ruminating  much  on  the  possible  forms 


THE  FINAL   RESCUE.  453 

in  which  he  might  put  a  question.  At  last  he  said,  in  a  more 
timid  voice  than  usual,  — 

"  Will  you  give  me  leave  to  ask  you  only  one  thing,  Miss  ?  " 

Maggie  was  rather  startled,  but  she  answered,  "  Yes,  Bob,  if 
it  is  about  myself — not  about  any  one  else." 

"  Well,  Miss,  it 's  this.     Do  you  owe  anybody  a  grudge  ?  " 

"  No,  not  any  one,"  said  Maggie,  looking  up  at  him  inquir- 
ingly. "  Why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  lors,  Miss,"  said  Bob,  pinching  Mumps's  neck  harder 
than  ever.  "  I  wish  you  did,  an'  'ud  tell  me  ;  I  'd  leather  him 
till  I  could  n't  see  —  I  would  —  an'  the  Justice  might  do  what 
he  liked  to  me  arter." 

"  Oh,  Bob,"  said  Maggie,  smiling  faintly,  "  you  're  a  very 
good  friend  to  me.  But  I  should  n't  like  to  punish  any  one, 
even  if  they  'd  done  me  wrong ;  I  've  done  wrong  myself  too 
often." 

This  view  of  things  was  puzzling  to  Bob,  and  threw  more 
obscurity  than  ever  over  what  could  possibly  have  happened 
between  Stephen  and  Maggie.  But  further  questions  would 
have  been  too  intrusive,  even  if  he  could  have  framed  them 
suitably,  and  he  was  obliged  to  carry  baby  away  again  to  an 
expectant  mother. 

"  Happen  you  'd  like  Mumps  for  company,  Miss,"  he  said 
when  he  had  taken  the  baby  again.  "  He  's  rare  company, 
Mumps  is  ;  he  knows  iverything,  an'  makes  no  bother  about 
it.  If  I  tell  him,  he  '11  lie  before  you  an'  watch  you,  as  still, 
—  just  as  he  watches  my  pack.  You  'd  better  let  me  leave 
him  a  bit ;  he  '11  get  fond  on  you.  Lors,  it 's  a  fine  thing  to 
hev  a  dumb  brute  fond  on  you ;  it  '11  stick  to  you,  an'  make 
no  jaw." 

"Yes,  do  leave  him,  please,"  said  Maggie.  "I  think  I 
should  like  to  have  Mumps  for  a  friend." 

"  Mumps,  lie  down  there,"  said  Bob,  pointing  to  a  place  in 
front  of  Maggie,  "  and  niver  do  you  stir  till  you  're  spoke  to." 

Mumps  lay  down  at  once,  and  made  no  sign  of  restlessness 
when  his  master  left  the  room. 


454  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 


CHAPTER   II. 

ST.  OGG'S  PASSES  JUDGMENT. 

IT  was  soon  known  throughout  St.  Ogg's  that  Miss  Tulliver 
was  come  back ;  she  had  not,  then,  eloped  in  order  to  be 
married  to  Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  —  at  all  events,  Mr.  Stephen 
Guest  had  not  married  her ;  which  came  to  the  same  thing, 
so  far  as  her  culpability  was  concerned.  We  judge  others 
according  to  results  ;  how  else  ?  —  not  knowing  the  process 
by  which  results  are  arrived  at.  If  Miss  Tulliver,  after  a 
few  months  of  well-chosen  travel,  had  returned  as  Mrs. 
Stephen  Guest,  with  a  post-marital  trousseau,  and  all  the 
advantages  possessed  eren  by  the  most  unwelcome  wife  of  an 
only  son,  public  opinion,  which  at  St.  Ogg's,  as  elsewhere, 
always  knew  what  to  think,  would  have  judged  in  strict  con- 
sistency with  those  results.  Public  opinion,  in  these  cases, 
is  always  of  the  feminine  gender,  —  not  the  world,  but  the 
world's  wife ;  and  she  would  have  seen  that  two  handsome 
young  people  —  the  gentleman  of  quite  the  first  family  in  St. 
Ogg's  —  having  found  themselves  in  a  false  position,  had  been 
led  into  a  course  which,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  was  highly 
injudicious,  and  productive  of  sad  pain  and  disappointment, 
especially  to  that  sweet  young  thing,  Miss  Deane.  Mr. 
Stephen  Guest  had  certainly  not  behaved  well ;  but  then, 
young  men  were  liable  to  those  sudden  infatuated  attach- 
ments ;  and  bad  as  it  might  seem  in  Mrs.  Stephen  Guest  to 
admit  the  faintest  advances  from  her  cousin's  lover  (indeed  it 
had  been  said  that  she  was  actually  engaged  to  young  Wakem, 

—  old  Wakem  himself  had  mentioned  it),  still,  she  was  very 
young,  —  "  and   a   deformed   young   man,    you   know  !  —  and 
young  Guest  so  very  fascinating;  and,  they  say,  he  positively 
worships  her  (to  be  sure,  that  can't  last ! ),  and  he  ran  away 
with  her  in  the  boat  quite  against  her  will,  and  what  could 
she  do  ?     She  could  n't  come  back  then ;  no  one  would  have 
spoken  to  her ;  and  how  very  well  that  maize-coloured  satin- 
ette  becomes  her  complexion  !      It  seems  as  if  the  folds  in 
front  were  quite  come  in ;  several  of  her  dresses  are  made  so, 

—  they  say  he  thinks  nothing  too  handsome  to  buy  for  her- 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  455 

Poor  Miss  Deane !  She  is  very  pitiable ;  but  then  there  was 
no  positive  engagement ;  and  the  air  at  the  coast  will  do  her 
good.  After  all,  if  young  Guest  felt  no  more  for  her  than 
that,  it  was  better  for  her  not  to  marry  him.  What  a  wonder- 
ful marriage  for  a  girl  like  Miss  Tulliver,  —  quite  romantic ! 
Why,  young  Guest  will  put  up  for  the  borough  at  the  next 
election.  Nothing  like  commerce  nowadays  !  That  young 
Wakem  nearly  went  out  of  his  mind ;  he  always  was  rather 
queer ;  but  he 's  gone  abroad  again  to  be  out  of  the  way,  —  quite 
the  best  thing  for  a  deformed  young  man.  Miss  Unit  declares 
she  will  never  visit  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stephen  Guest,  —  such 
nonsense  !  pretending  to  be  better  than  other  people.  Society 
couldn't  be  carried  on  if  we  inquired  into  private  conduct  in 
that  way,  —  and  Christianity  tells  us  to  think  no  evil,  —  and 
my  belief  is,  that  Miss  Unit  had  no  cards  sent  her." 

But  the  results,  we  know,  were  not  of  a  kind  to  warrant 
this  extenuation  of  the  past.  Maggie  had  returned  without 
a  trousseau,  without  a  husband,  —  in  that  degraded  and  out- 
cast condition  to  which  error  is  well  known  to  lead;  and  the 
world's  wife,  with  that  fine  instinct  which  is  given  her  for  the 
preservation  of  Society,  saw  at  once  that  Miss  Tulliver's  con- 
duct had  been  of  the  most  aggravated  kind.  Could  anything 
be  more  detestable  ?  A  girl  so  much  indebted  to  her  friends 
—  whose  mother  as  well  as  herself  had  received  so  much 
kindness  from  the  Deanes  —  to  lay  the  design  of  winning  a 
young  man 's  affections  away  from  her  own  cousin,  who  had 
behaved  like  a  sister  to  her  !  Winning  his  affections  ?  That 
was  not  the  phrase  for  such  a  girl  as  Miss  Tulliver ;  it  would 
have  been  more  correct  to  say  that  she  had  been  actuated  by 
mere  unwomanly  boldness  and  unbridled  passion.  There  was 
always  something  questionable  about  her.  That  connection 
with  young  Wakem,  which,  they  said,  had  been  carried  on 
for  years,  looked  very  ill,  —  disgusting,  in  fact !  But  with 
a  girl  of  that  disposition!  To  the  world's  wife  there  had 
always  been  something  in  Miss  Tulliver's  very  physique  that 
a  refined  instinct  felt  to  be  prophetic  of  harm.  As  for  poor 
Mr.  Stephen  Guest,  he  was  rather  pitiable  than  otherwise ; 
a  young  man  of  five-and-twenty  is  not  to  be  too  severely 
judged  in  these  cases,  —  he  is  really  very  much  at  the  mercy 
of  a  designing,  bold  girl.  And  it  was  clear  that  he  had  given 
way  in  spite  of  himself :  he  had  shaken  her  off  as  soon  as  he 
could ;  indeed,  their  having  parted  so  soon  looked  very  black 
indeed  — for  her.  To  be  sure,  he  had  written  a  letter,  lay- 
ing all  the  blame  on  himself,  and  telling  the  story  in  a  roman- 


456  THE   M/LL    (AY    THE    FLOSS. 

tic,  fashion  so  as  to  try  and  make  her  appear  quite  innocent; 
of  course  he  would  do  that!  l>ut  tlie  retined  instinct  of  the 
world's  wife  was  not  to  ho  deceived;  providentially! — else 
what  would  become  of  Society  ?  Why,  her  own  brother  had 
turned  her  from  his  door ;  he  had  seen  enough,  you  might  be 
sure,  before  he  would  do  that.  A  truly  respectable  young 
man,  Mr.  Tom  Tulliver ;  quite  likely  to  rise  in  the  world! 
His  sister's  disgrace  was  naturally  a  heavy  blow  to  him.  It 
was  to  be  hoped  that  she  would  go  out  of  the  neighbourhood, 
—  to  America,  or  anywhere,  —  so  as  to  purify  the  air  of  St. 
Ogg's  from  the  taint  of  her  presence,  extremely  dangerous 
to  daughters  there!  No  good  could  happen  to  her;  it  was 
only  to  be  hoped  she  would  repent,  and  that  God  would  have 
mercy  on  her :  He  had  not  the  care  of  society  on  His  hands, 
as  the  world's  wife  had. 

It  required  nearly  a  fortnight  for  fine  instinct  to  assure 
itself  of  these  inspirations ;  indeed,  it  was  a  whole  week 
before  Stephen's  letter  came,  telling  his  father  the  facts,  and 
adding  that  he  was  gone  across  to  Holland,  —  had  drawn  upon 
the  agent  at  Mudport  for  money,  —  was  incapable  of  any 
resolution  at  present. 

Maggie,  all  this  while,  was  too  entirely  filled  with  a  more 
agonising  anxiety  to  spend  any  thought  on  the  view  that  was 
being  taken  of  her  conduct  by  the  world  of  St.  Ogg's ;  anxiety 
about  Stephen,  Lucy,  Philip,  beat  on  her  poor  heart  in  a  hard, 
driving,  ceaseless  storm  of  mingled  love,  remorse,  and  pity. 
If  she  had  thought  of  rejection  and  injustice  at  all,  it  would 
have  seemed  to  her  that  they  had  done  their  worst ;  that  she 
could  hardly  feel  any  stroke  from  them  intolerable  since  the 
words  she  had  heard  from  her  brother's  lips.  Across  all  her 
anxiety  for  the  loved  and  the  injured,  those  words  shot  again 
and  again,  like  a  horrible  pang  that  would  have  brought 
misery  and  dread  even  into  a  heaven  of  delights.  The  idea 
of  ever  recovering  happiness  never  glimmered  in  her  mind 
for  a  moment;  it  seemed  as  if  every  sensitive  fibre  in  her 
were  too  entirely  preoccupied  by  pain  ever  to  vibrate  again 
to  another  influence.  Life  stretched  before  her  as  one  act  of 
penitence ;  and  all  she  craved,  as  she  dwelt  on  her  future  lot, 
was  something  to  guarantee  her  from  more  falling  ;  her  own 
weakness  haunted  her  like  a  vision  of  hideous  possibilities, 
that  made  no  peace  conceivable  except  such  as  lay  in  the 
sense  of  a  sure  refuge. 

But  she  was  not  without  practical  intentions ;  the  love  of 
independence  was  too  strong  an  inheritance  and  a  habit  for 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  457 

her  not  to  remember  that  she  must  get  her  bread ;  and  when 
other  projects  looked  vague,  she  fell  back  on  that  of  return- 
ing to  her  plain  sewing,  and  so  getting  enough  to  pay  for  her 
lodging  at  Bob's.  She  meant  to  persuade  her  mother  to 
return  to  the  Mill  by-and-by,  and  live  with  Tom  again ;  and 
somehow  or  other  she  would  maintain  herself  at  St.  Ogg's. 
Dr.  Kenn  would  perhaps  help  her  and  advise  her.  She 
remembered  his  parting  words  at  the  bazaar.  She  remembered 
the  momentary  feeling  of  reliance  that  had  sprung  in  her 
when  he  was  talking  with  her,  and  she  waited  with  yearning 
expectation  for  the  opportunity  of  confiding  everything  to 
him.  Her  mother  called  every  day  at  Mr.  Deane's  to  learn 
how  Lucy  was  ;  the  report  was  always  sad,  —  nothing  had  yet 
roused  her  from  the  feeble  passivity  which  had  come  on  with 
the  first  shock.  But  of  Philip,  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  learned 
nothing  ;  naturally,  no  one  whom  she  met  would  speak  to  her 
about  what  related  to  her  daughter.  But  at  last  she  sum- 
moned courage  to  go  and  see  sister  Glegg,  who  of  course 
would  know  everything,  and  had  been  even  to  see  Tom  at  the 
Mill  in  Mrs.  Tulliver's  absence,  though  he  had  said  nothing 
of  what  had  passed  on  the  occasion. 

As  soon  as  her  mother  was  gone,  Maggie  put  on  her  bonnet. 
She  had  resolved  on  walking  to  the  Eectory  and  asking  to  see 
Dr.  Kenn ;  he  was  in  deep  grief,  but  the  grief  of  another  does 
not  jar  upon  us  in  such  circumstances.  It  was  'the  first  time 
she  had  been  beyond  the  door  since  her  return ;  nevertheless 
her  mind  was  so  bent  on  the  purpose  of  her  walk,  that  the 
unpleasantness  of  meeting  people  on  the  way,  and  being  stared 
at,  did  not  occur  to  her.  But  she  had  no  sooner  passed  beyond 
the  narrower  streets  which  she  had  to  thread  from  Bob's  dwell- 
ing, than  she  became  aware  of  unusual  glances  cast  at  her; 
and  this  consciousness  made  her  hurry  along  nervously,  afraid 
to  look  to  right  or  left.  Presently,  however,  she  came  full 
on  Mrs.  and  Miss  Turnbull,  old  acquaintances  of  her  family ; 
they  both  looked  at  her  strangely,  and  turned  a  little  aside 
without  speaking.  All  hard  looks  were  pain  to  Maggie,  but 
her  self-reproach  was  too  strong  for  resentment.  No  wonder 
they  will  not  speak  to  me.  she  thought ;  they  are  very  fond 
of  Lucy.  But  now  she  knew  that  she  was  about  to  pass  a 
group  of  gentlemen,  who  were  standing  at  the  door  of  the 
billiard-rooms,  and  she  could  not  help  seeing  young  Torry  step 
out  a  little  with  his  glass  at  his  eye,  and  bow  to  her  with  that 
air  of  nonchalance  which  he  might  have  bestowed  on  a  friendly 
bar-maid.  Maggie's  pride  was  too  intense  for  her  not  to  feel 


453  THE  MILL    ON    THE   FLOSS. 

that  sting,  even  in  the  midst  of  her  sorrow ;  and  for  the  first 
time  the  thought  took  strong  hold  of  her  that  she  would  have 
other  obloquy  cast  on  her  besides  that  which  was  felt  to  be  due 
to  her  breach  of  faith  towards  Lucy.  But  she  was  at  the 
Rectory  now ;  there,  perhaps,  she  would  rind  something  else 
than  retribution.  Retribution  may  come  from  any  voice ;  the 
hardest,  cruelest,  most  imbruted  urchin  at  the  street-corner 
can  inflict  it ;  surely  help  and  pity  are  rarer  things,  more 
needful  for  the  righteous  to  bestow. 

She  was  shown  up  at  once,  after  being  announced,  into  Dr. 
Kenn's  study,  where  he  sat  amongst  piled-up  books,  for  which 
he  had  little  appetite,  leaning  his  cheek  against  the  head  of 
his  youngest  child,  a  girl  of  three.  The  child  was  sent  away 
with  the  servant,  and  when  the  door  was  closed,  Dr.  Kenn  said, 
placing  a  chair  for  Maggie,  — 

"I  was  coming  to  see  you,  Miss  Tulliver;  you  have  antici- 
pated me  ;  I  am  glad  you  did." 

Maggie  looked  at  him  with  her  childlike  directness  as  she 
had  done  at  the  bazaar,  and  said,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  every- 
thing." But  her  eyes  filled  fast  with  tears  as  she  said  it,  and 
all  the  pent-up  excitement  of  her  humiliating  walk  would  have 
its  vent  before  she  could  say  more. 

"Do  tell  me  everything,"  Dr.  Kenn  said,  with  quiet  kind- 
ness in  his  grave,  firm  voice.  "  Think  of  me  as  one  to  whom  a 
long  experience  has  been  granted,  which  may  enable  him  to 
help  you." 

In  rather  broken  sentences,  and  with  some  effort  at  first,  but 
soon  with  the  greater  ease  that  came  from  a  sense  of  relief  in 
the  confidence,  Maggie  told  the  brief  story  of  a  struggle  that 
must  be  the  beginning  of  a  long  sorrow.  Only  the  day  before, 
Dr.  Kenn  had  been  made  acquainted  with  the  contents  of  Ste- 
phen's letter,  and  he  had  believed  them  at  once,  without  the 
confirmation  of  Maggie's  statement.  That  involuntary  plaint 
of  hers,  "  Oh,  I  must  go"  had  remained  with  him  as  the  sign 
that  she  was  undergoing  some  inward  conflict. 

Maggie  dwelt  the  longest  on  the  feeling  which  had  made  her 
come  back  to  her  mother  and  brother,  which  made  her  cling  to 
all  the  memories  of  the  past.  When  she  had  ended,  Dr.  Kenn 
was  silent  for  some  minutes  ;  there  was  a  difficulty  on  his  mind. 
He  rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  hearth  with  his  hands 
behind  him.  At  last  he  seated  himself  again,  and  said,  look- 
ing at  Maggie,  — 

"  Your  prompting  to  go  to  your  nearest  friends,  —  to  remain 
where  all  the  ties  of  your  life  have  been  formed,  —  is  a  true 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  459 

prompting,  to  which  the  Church  in  its  original  constitution 
and  discipline  responds,  opening  its  arms  to  the  penitent, 
watching  over  its  children  to  the  last;  never  abandoning 
them  until  they  are  hopelessly  reprobate.  And  the  Church 
ought  to  represent  the  feeling  of  the  community,  so  that  every 
parish  should  be  a  family  knit  together  by  Christian  brother- 
hood under  a  spiritual  father.  But  the  ideas  of  discipline  and 
Christian  fraternity  are  entirely  relaxed,  —  they  can  hardly  be 
.<aid  to  exist  in  the  public  mind ;  they  hardly  survive  except 
in  the  partial,  contradictory  form  they  have  taken  in  the  nar- 
row communities  of  schismatics ;  and  if  I  were  not  supported 
by  the  firm  faith  that  the  Church  must  ultimately  recover  the 
full  force  of  that  constitution  which  is  alone  fitted  to  human 
needs,  I  should  often  lose  heart  at  observing  the  want  of  fellow- 
ship and  sense  of  mutual  responsibility  among  my  own  flock. 
At  present  everything  seems  tending  towards  the  relaxation  of 
ties,  —  towards  the  substitution  of  wayward  choice  for  the 
adherence  to  obligation,  which  lias  its  roots  in  the  past.  Your 
conscience  and  your  heart  have  given  you  true  light  on  this 
point,  Miss  Tulliver ;  and  I  have  said  all  this  that  you  may  know 
what  my  wish  about  you  —  what  my  advice  to  you  —  would 
be,  if  they  sprang  from  my  own  feeling  and  opinion  unmod- 
ified by  counteracting  circumstances." 

Dr.  Kenn  paused  a  little  while.  There  was  an  entire  ab- 
sence of  effusive  benevolence  in  his  manner ;  there  was  some- 
thing almost  cold  in  the  gravity  of  his  look  and  voice.  If 
Maggie  had  not  known  that  his  benevolence  was  persevering  in 
proportion  to  its  reserve,  she  might  have  been  chilled  and 
frightened.  As  it  was,  she  listened  expectantly,  quite  sure 
that  there  would  be  some  effective  help  in  his  words.  He 
went  on. 

"Your  inexperience  of  the  world,  Miss  Tulliver,  prevents 
you  from  anticipating  fully  the  very  unjust  conceptions  that 
will  probably  be  formed  concerning  your  conduct,  —  concep- 
tions which  will  have  a  baneful  effect,  even  in  spite  of  known 
evidence  to  disprove  them." 

"  Oh,  I  do,  —  I  begin  to  see,"  said  Maggie,  unable  to  repress 
this  utterance  of  her  recent  pain.  "I  know  I  shall  be  in- 
sulted; I  shall  be  thought  worse  than  I  am." 

"You  perhaps  do  not  yet  know,"  said  Dr.  Kenn,  with  a 
touch  of  more  personal  pity,  "that  a  letter  is  come  which 
ought  to  satisfy  every  one  who  has  known  anything  of  you,  that 
you  chose  the  steep  and  difficult  path  of  a  return  to  the  right, 
at  the  moment  when  that  return  was  most  of  all  difficult." 


460  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

"Oh,  where  is  he?"  said  poor  Maggie,  with  a  flush  and 
tremor  that  no  presence  could  have  hindered. 

"  He  is  gone  abroad ;  he  has  written  of  all  that  passed  to 
his  father.  He  has  vindicated  you  to  the  utmost ;  and  I  hope 
the  communication  of  that  letter  to  your  cousin  will  have  a 
beneficial  effect  on  her." 

Dr.  Kenn  waited  for  her  to  get  calm  again  before  he 
went  on. 

"  That  letter,  as  I  said,  ought  to  suffice  to  prevent  false  im- 
pressions concerning  you.  But  I  am  bound  to  tell  you,  Mis.- 
Tulliver,  that  not  only  the  experience  of  my  whole  life,  but 
my  observation  within  the  last  three  days,  makes  me  fear  that 
there  is  hardly  any  evidence  which  will  save  you  from  the 
painful  effect  of  false  imputations.  The  persons  who  are  the 
most  incapable  of  a  conscientious  struggle  such  as  yours  are 
precisely  those  who  will  be  likely  to  shrink  from  you,  be- 
cause they  will  not  believe  in  your  struggle.  I  fear  your  life 
here  will  be  attended  not  only  with  much  pain,  but  with  many 
obstructions.  For  this  reason  —  and  for  this  only  —  I  ask 
you  to  consider  whether  it  will  not  perhaps  be  better  for  you 
to  take  a  situation  at  a  distance,  according  to  your  former  in- 
tention. I  will  exert  myself  at  once  to  obtain  one  for  you." 

"  Oh,  if  1  could  but  stop  here  !  "  said  Maggie.  "  I  have  no 
heart  to  begin  a  strange  life  again.  I  should  have  no  stay.  I 
should  feel  like  a  lonely  wanderer,  cut  off  from  the  past.  I 
have  written  to  the  lady  who  offered  me  a  situation  to  excuse 
myself.  If  I  remained  here,  I  could  perhaps  atone  in  some 
way  to  Lucy  —  toothers;  I  could  convince  them  that  I'm 
sorry.  And,"  she  added,  with  some  of  the  old  proud  fire 
flashing  out,  "I  will  not  go  away  because  people  say  false 
things  of  me.  They  shall  learn  to  retract  them.  If  I  must 
go  away  at  last,  because  —  because  others  wish  it,  I  will  not 
go  now." 

"  Well,"  said  Dr.  Kenn,  after  some  consideration,  "  if  you 
determine  on  that,  Miss  Tulliver,  you  may  rely  on  all  the  in 
fltience  my  position  gives  me.     I  am  bound  to  aid  and  coun 
tenance  you  by  the  very  duties  of  my  office  as  a  parish  priest. 
I  will  add,  that  personally  I  have  a  deep  interest  in  your  peace 
of  mind  and  welfare." 

"  The  only  thing  I  want  is  some  occupation  that  will  enable 
me  to  get  my  bread  and  be  independent,"  said  Maggie.  "I 
shall  not  want  much.  I  can  go  on  lodging  where  I  am." 

"I  must  think  over  the  subject  maturely,"  said  Dr.  Kenn, 
"and  in  a  few  days  I  shall  be  better  able  to  ascertain  the 


THE  FINAL   RESCUE.  461 

general  feeling.  I  shall  come  to  see  you ;  I  shall  bear  you  con- 
stantly in  mind." 

When  Maggie  had  left  him,  Dr.  Kenn  stood  ruminating  with 
his  hands  behind  him,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  carpet,  under 
a  painful  sense  of  doubt  and  difficulty.  The  tone  of  Stephen's 
letter,  which  he  had  read,  and  the  actual  relations  of  all  the 
persons  concerned,  forced  upon  him  powerfully  the  idea  of  an 
ultimate  marriage  between  Stephen  and  Maggie  as  the  least 
evil;  and  the  impossibility  of  their  proximity  in  St.  Ogg's 
on  any  other  supposition,  until  after  years  of  separation, 
threw  an  insurmountable  prospective  difficulty  over  Maggie's 
stay  there.  On  the  other  hand,  he  entered  with  all  the  com- 
prehension of  a  man  who  had  known  spiritual  conflict,  and 
lived  through  years  of  devoted  service  to  his  fellow-men,  into 
that  state  of  Maggie's  heart  and  conscience  which  made  the 
consent  to  the  marriage  a  desecration  to  her ;  her  conscience 
must  not  be  tampered  with ;  the  principle  on  which  she  had 
acted  was  a  safer  guide  than  any  balancing  of  consequences. 
His  experience  told  him  that  intervention  was  too  dubious  a 
responsibility  to  be  lightly  incurred ;  the  possible  issue  either 
of  an  endeavour  to  restore  the  former  relations  with  Lucy  and 
Philip,  or  of  counselling  submission  to  this  irruption  of  a  new 
feeling,  was  hidden  in  a  darkness  all  the  more  impenetrable 
because  each  immediate  step  was  clogged  with  evil. 

The  great  problem  of  the  shifting  relation  between  passion 
and  duty  is  clear  to  no  man  who  is  capable  of  apprehending  it ; 
the  question  whether  the  moment  has  come  in  which  a  man 
has  fallen  below  the  possibility  of  a  renunciation  that  will 
carry  any  efficacy,  and  must  accept  the  sway  of  a  passion 
against  which  he  had  struggled  as  a  trespass,  is  one  for 
which  we  have  no  master-key  that  will  fit  all  cases.  The 
casuists  have  become  a  byword  of  reproach ;  but  their  per- 
verted spirit  of  minute  discrimination  was  the  shadow  of  a 
truth  to  which  eyes  and  hearts  are  too  often  fatally  sealed,  — 
the  truth,  that  moral  judgments  must  remain  false  and  hollow, 
unless  they  are  checked  and  enlightened  by  a  perpetual  refer- 
ence to  the  special  circumstances  that  mark  the  individual  lot. 

All  people  of  broad,  strong  sense  have  an  instinctive  repug- 
nance to  the  men  of  maxims ;  because  such  people  early  dis- 
cern that  the  mysterious  complexity  of  our  life  is  not  to  be 
embraced  by  maxims,  and  that  to  lace  ourselves  up  in  for- 
mulas of  that  sort  is  to  repress  all  the  divine  promptings 
and  inspirations  that  spring  from  growing  insight  and  sym- 
pathy. And  the  man  of  maxims  is  the  popular  representative 


462  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

of  the  minds  that  are  guided  in  their  moral  judgment  solely  by 
general  rules,  thinking  that  these  will  lead  them  to  justice  by 
a  ready-made  patent  method,  without  the  trouble  of  exerting 
patience,  discrimination,  impartiality,  —  without  any  care  to 
assure  themselves  whether  they  have  the  insight  that  comes 
from  a  hardly  earned  estimate  of  temptation,  or  from  a  life 
vivid  and  intense  enough  to  have  created  a  wide  fellow-feeling 
with  all  that  is  human. 


CHAPTER    III. 

SHOWING   THAT   OLD    ACQUAINTANCES    ARE    CAPABLE    OP 
SURPRISING    US. 

WHEN  Maggie  was  at  home  again,  her  mother  brought  her 
news  of  an  unexpected  line  of  conduct  in  aunt  Glegg.  As  long 
as  Maggie  had  not  been  heard  of,  Mrs.  Glegg  had  half  closed 
her  shutters  and  drawn  down  her  blinds.  She  felt  assured  that 
Maggie  was  drowned ;  that  was  far  more  probable  than  that 
her  niece  and  legatee  should  have  done  anything  to  wound 
the  family  honour  in  the  tenderest  point.  When  at  last  she 
learned  from  Tom  that  Maggie  had  come  home,  and  gath- 
ered from  him  what  was  her  explanation  of  her  absence,  she 
burst  forth  in  severe  reproof  of  Tom  for  admitting  the  worst 
of  his  sister  until  he  was  compelled.  If  you  were  not  to  stand 
by  your  "kin"  as  long  as  there  was  a  shred  of  honour  attribu- 
table to  them,  pray  what  were  you  to  stand  by  ?  Lightly  to 
admit  conduct  in  one  of  your  own  family  that  would  force 
you  to  alter  your  will,  had  never  been  the  way  of  the  Dodsons  ; 
and  though  Mrs.  Glegg  had  always  augured  ill  of  Maggie's 
future  at  a  time  when  other  people  were  perhaps  less  clear- 
sighted, yet  fair-play  was  a  jewel,  and  it  was  not  for  her  owr 
friends  to  help  to  rob  the  girl  of  her  fair  fame,  and  to  cast  hi 
out  from  family  shelter  to  the  scorn  of  the  outer  world,  unt; 
she  had  become  unequivocally  a  family  disgrace.  The  civ 
cumstances  were  unprecedented  in  Mrs.  Glegg's  experience  ; 
nothing  of  that  kind  had  happened  among  the  Dodsons  be- 
fore ;  but  it  was  a  case  in  which  her  hereditary  rectitude  and 
personal  strength  of  character  found  a  common  channel  along 
with  her  fundamental  ideas  of  clanship,  as  they  did  in  her  life- 
long regard  to  equity  in  money  matters.  She  quarrelled  with 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  463 

Mr.  Glegg,  whose  kindness,  flowing  entirely  into  compassion 
for  Lucy,  made  him  as  hard  in  his  judgment  of  Maggie  as  Mr. 
Deane  himself  was ;  and  fuming  against  her  sister  Tulliver 
because  she  did  not  at  once  come  to  her  for  advice  and  help, 
shut  herself  up  in  her  own  room  with  Baxter's  "  Saints'  Eest " 
from  morning  till  night,  denying  herself  to  all  visitors,  till  Mr. 
Glegg  brought  from  Mr.  Deane  the  news  of  Stephen's  letter. 
Then  Mrs.  Glegg  felt  that  she  had  adequate  fighting-ground ; 
then  she  laid  aside  Baxter,  and  was  ready  to  meet  all  comers. 
While  Mrs.  Pullet  could  do  nothing  but  shake  her  head  and 
cry,  and  wish  that  cousin  Abbot  had  died,  or  any  number  of 
funerals  had  happened  rather  than  this,  which  had  never  hap- 
pened before,  so  that  there  was  no  knowing  how  to  act,  and 
Mrs.  Pullet  could  never  enter  St.  Ogg's  again,  because  "ac- 
quaintances "  knew  of  it  all,  Mrs.  Glegg  only  hoped  that  Mrs. 
Wooll,  or  any  one  else,  would  come  to  her  with  their  false  tales 
about  her  own  niece,  and  she  would  know  what  to  say  to  that 
ill-advised  person ! 

Again  she  had  a  scene  of  remonstrance  with  Tom,  all  the 
more  severe  in  proportion  to  the  greater  strength  of  her  pres- 
ent position.  But  Tom,  like  other  immovable  things,  seemed 
only  the  more  rigidly  fixed  under  that  attempt  to  shake  him. 
Poor  Tom !  he  judged  by  what  he  had  been  able  to  see ;  and 
the  judgment  was  painful  enough  to  himself.  He  thought  he 
had  the  demonstration  of  facts  observed  through  years  by  his 
own  eyes,  which  gave  no  warning  of  their  imperfection,  that 
Maggie's  nature  was  utterly  untrustworthy,  and  too  strongly 
marked  with  evil  tendencies  to  be  safely  treated  with  leni- 
ency. He  would  act  on  that  demonstration  at  any  cost ;  but 
the  thought  of  it  made  his  days  bitter  to  him.  Tom,  like 
every  one  of  us,  was  imprisoned  within  the  limits  of  his 
own  nature,  and  his  education  had  simply  glided  over  him, 
leaving  a  slight  deposit  of  polish ;  if  you  are  inclined  to  be 
severe  on  his  severity,  remember  that  the  responsibility  of 
tolerance  lies  with  those  who  have  the  wider  vision.  There 
had  arisen  in  Tom  a  repulsion  towards  Maggie  that  derived 
its  very  intensity  from  their  early  childish  love  in  the  time 
when  they  had  clasped  tiny  fingers  together,  and  their  later 
sense  of  nearness  in  a  common  duty  and  a  common  sorrow ; 
the  sight  of  her,  as  he  had  told  her,  was  hateful  to  him. 
In  this  branch  of  the  Dodson  family  aunt  Glegg  found  a 
stronger  nature  than  her  own;  a  nature  in  which  family 
feeling  had  lost  the  character  of  clanship  by  taking  on  a 
doubly  deep  dye  of  personal  pride.  Mrs.  Glegg  allowed 


464  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

that  Maggie  ought  to  be  punished, — she  was  not  a  woman  to 
deny  that;  she  knew  what  conduct  was,  —  but  punished  in 
proportion  to  the  misdeeds  proved  against  her,  not  to  those 
which  were  cast  upon  her  by  people  outside  her  own  family, 
who  might  wish  to  show  that  their  own  kin  were  better. 

"  Your  aunt  Glegg  scolded  me  so  as  niver  was,  my  dear," 
said  poor  Mrs.  Tulliver,  when  she  came  back  to  Maggie,  "  as 
I  did  n't  go  to  her  before  ;  she  said  it  was  n't  for  her  to 
come  to  me  first.  But  she  spoke  like  a  sister,  too;  having 
she  allays  was,  and  hard  to  please,  —  oh  dear !  —  but  she 's  said 
the  kindest  word  as  has  ever  been  spoke  by  you  yet,  my  child. 
For  she  says,  for  all  she  's  been  so  set  again'  having  one  extry 
in  the  house,  and  making  extry  spoons  and  things,  and  putting 
her  about  in  her  ways,  you  shall  have  a  shelter  in  her  house, 
if  you  '11  go  to  her  dutiful,  and  she  '11  uphold  you  against  folks 
as  say  harm  of  you  when  they  've  no  call.  And  I  told  her  I 
thought  you  could  n't  bear  to  see  anybody  but  me,  you  were 
so  beat  down  with  trouble  ;  but  she  said,  '  /  won't  throw  ill 
words  at  her ;  there  's  them  out  o'  th'  family  'ull  be  ready 
enough  to  do  that.  But  I  '11  give  her  good  advice ;  an'  she 
must  be  humble.'  It 's  wonderful  o'  Jane  ;  for  I  'm  sure  she 
used  to  throw  everything  I  did  wrong  at  me,  —  if  it  was  the 
raisin-wine  as  turned  out  bad,  or  the  pies  too  hot,  or  what- 
iver  it  was." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  poor  Maggie,  shrinking  from  the  thought 
of  all  the  contact  her  bruised  mind  would  have  to  bear,  "  tell 
her  I  'm  very  grateful ;  I  '11  go  to  see  her  as  soon  as  I  can ; 
but  I  can't  see  any  one  just  yet,  except  Dr.  Kenn.  I  've  been 
to  him,  —  he  will  advise  me,  and  help  me  to  get  some  occupa- 
tion. I  can't  live  with  any  one,  or  be  dependent  on  them,  tell 
aunt  Glegg;  I  must  get  my  own  bread.  But  did  you  hear 
nothing  of  Philip  —  Philip  Wakem  ?  Have  you  never  seen 
any  one  that  has  mentioned  him  ? " 

"  No,  my  dear ;  but  I  've  been  to  Lucy's,  and  I  saw  your 
uncle,  and  he  says  they  got  her  to  listen  to  the  letter,  and 
she  took  notice  o'  Miss  Guest,  and  asked  questions,  and  the 
doctor  thinks  she  Js  on  the  turn  to  be  better.  What  a  world 
this  is,  —  what  trouble,  oh  dear !  The  law  was  the  first  be- 
ginning, and  it 's  gone  from  bad  to  worse,  all  of  a  sudden, 
just  when  the  luck  seemed  on  the  turn."  This  was  the  first 
lamentation  that  Mrs.  Tulliver  had  let  slip  to  Maggie,  but 
old  habit  had  been  revived  by  the  interview  with  sister 
Glegg. 

"  My  poor,  poor  mother ! "  Maggie  burst   out,    cut   to   the 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  465 

heart  with  pity  and  compunction,  and  throwing  her  arms 
round  her  mother's  neck ;  "  I  was  always  naughty  and  trouble- 
some to  you.  And  now  you  might  have  been  happy  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  me." 

"Eh,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Tulliver,  leaning  towards  the 
warm  young  cheek ;  "  I  must  put  up  wi'  my  children,  —  I 
shall  never  have  no  more  ;  and  if  they  bring  me  bad  luck, 
I  must  be  fond  on  it.  There  's  nothing  else  much  to  be 
fond  on,  for  my  furnitur'  went  long  ago.  And  you  'd  got 
to  be  very  good  once;  I  can't  think  how  it's  turned  out 
the  wrong  way  so  !  " 

Still  two  or  three  more  days  passed,  and  Maggie  heard 
nothing  of  Philip ;  anxiety  about  him  was  becoming  her 
predominant  trouble,  and  she  summoned  courage  at  last  to 
inquire  about  him  of  Dr.  Kenn,  on  his  next  visit  to  her. 
He  did  not  even  know  if  Philip  was  at  home.  The  elder 
Wakem  was  made  moody  by  an  accumulation  of  annoy- 
ance ;  the  disappointment  in  this  young  Jetsome,  to  whom, 
apparently,  he  was  a  good  deal  attached,  had  been  followed 
close  by  the  catastrophe  to  his  son's  hopes  after  he  had 
done  violence  to  his  own  strong  feeling  by  conceding  to 
them,  and  had  incautiously  mentioned  this  concession  in 
St.  Ogg's ;  and  he  was  almost  fierce  in  his  brusqueness  when 
any  one  asked  him  a  question  about  his  son.  But  Philip 
could  hardly  have  been  ill,  or  it  would  have  been  known 
through  the  calling  in  of  the  medical  man ;  it  was  probable 
that  he  was  gone  out  of  the  town  for  a  little  while.  Mag- 
gie sickened  under  this  suspense,  and  her  imagination  be- 
gan to  live  more  and  more  persistently  in  what  Philip  was 
enduring.  What  did  he  believe  about  her? 

At  last  Bob  brought  her  a  letter,  without  a  postmark, 
directed  in  a  hand  which  she  knew  familiarly  in  the  let- 
ters of  her  own  name,  —  a  hand  in  which  her  name  had 
been  written  long  ago,  in  a  pocket  Shakespeare  which  she 
possessed.  Her  mother  was  in  the  room,  and  Maggie,  in 
violent  agitation,  hurried  upstairs  that  she  might  read  the 
letter  in  solitude.  She  read  it  with  a  throbbing  brow. 

"  MAGGIE,  —  I  believe  in  you ;  I  know  you  never  meant 
to  deceive  me  ;  I  know  you  tried  to  keep  faith  to  me  and 
to  all.  I  believed  this  before  I  had  any  other  evidence  of 
it  than  your  own  nature.  The  night  after  I  last  parted 
from  you  I  suffered  torments.  I  had  seen  what  convinced 
me  that  you  were  not  free  ;  that  there  was  another  whose 

30 


466  Till':   MILL    OX   THE   FLOSS. 

presence  had  a  power  over  you  which  mine  never  pos- 
sessed; but  through  all  the  suggestions  —  almost  murder- 
ous  suggestions  —  of  rage  and  jealousy,  my  mind  made  its 
way  to  believe  in  your  truthfulness.  I  was  sure  that  you 
meant  to  cleave  to  me,  as  you  had  said;  that  you  had  re- 
jected him;  that  you  struggled  to  renounce  him,  for  Lucy's 
sake  and  for  mine.  But  I  could  see  no  issue  that  was  not 
fatal  for  you;  and  that  dread  shut  out  the  very  thought 
of  resignation.  I  foresaw  that  he  would  not  relinquish  you, 
and  I  believed  then,  as  I  believe  now,  that  the  strong  attrac- 
tion which  drew  you  together  proceeded  only  from  one  side 
of  your  characters,  and  belonged  to  that  partial,  divided 
action  of  our  nature  which  makes  half  the  tragedy  of  the 
human  lot.  I  have  felt  the  vibration  of  chords  in  your  na- 
ture that  I  have  continually  felt  the  want  of  in  his.  But 
perhaps  I  am  wrong ;  perhaps  I  feel  about  you  as  the  artist 
does  about  the  scene  over  which  his  soul  has  brooded  with 
love ;  he  would  tremble  to  see  it  confided  to  other  hands  ; 
he  would  never  believe  that  it  could  bear  for  another  all 
the  meaning  and  the  beauty  it  bears  for  him. 

"  I  dared  not  trust  myself  to  see  you  that  morning ;  I 
was  filled  with  selfish  passion;  I  was  shattered  by  a  night 
of  conscious  delirium.  I  told  you  long  ago  that  I  had 
never  been  resigned  even  to  the  mediocrity  of  my  powers ; 
how  could  I  be  resigned  to  the  loss  of  the  one  thing  which 
had  ever  come  to  me  on  earth  with  the  promise  of  such 
deep  joy  as  would  give  a  new  and  blessed  meaning  to  the 
foregoing  pain,  —  the  promise  of  another  self  that  would 
lift  my  aching  affection  into  the  divine  rapture  of  an  ever- 
springing,  ever-satisfied  want? 

"But  the  miseries  of  that  night  had  prepared  me  for 
what  came  before  the  next.  It  was  no  surprise  to  me.  I 
was  certain  that  he  had  prevailed  on  you  to  sacrifice  every- 
thing to  him,  and  I  waited  with  equal  certainty  to  hear  of 
your  marriage.  I  measured  your  love  and  his  by  my  own 
But  I  was  wrong,  Maggie.  There  is  something  strongei 
in  you  than  your  love  for  him. 

"I  will  not  tell  you  what  I  went  through  in  that  inter- 
val. But  even  in  its  utmost  agony  —  even  in  those  terrible 
throes  that  love  must  suffer  before  it  can  be  disembodied 
of  selfish  desire  —  my  love  for  you  sufficed  to  withhold  me 
from  suicide,  without  the  aid  of  any  other  motive.  In  the 
midst  of  my  egoism,  I  yet  could  not  bear  to  come  like  a 
death -shadow  across  the  feast  of  your  joy.  I  could  not 


THE   FINAL    RESCUE.  467 

bear  to  forsake  the  world  in  which  you  still  lived  and 
might  need  me ;  it  was  part  of  the  faith  I  had  vowed  to 
you,  —  to  wait  and  endure.  Maggie,  that  is  a  proof  of  what 
I  write  now  to  assure  you  of,  —  that  no  anguish  I  have 
had  to  bear  on  your  account  has  been  too  heavy  a  price 
to  pay  for  the  new  life  into  which  I  have  entered  in  loving 
you.  I  want  you  to  put  aside  all  grief  because  of  the 
grief  you  have  caused  rne.  I  was  nurtured  in  the  sense 
of  privation ;  I  never  expected  happiness  ;  and  in  knowing 
you,  in  loving  you,  I  have  had,  and  still  have,  what  recon- 
ciles me  to  life.  You  have  been  to  my  affections  what 
light,  what  colour  is  to  my  eyes,  what  music  is  to  the 
inward  ear ;  you  have  raised  a  dim  unrest  into  a  vivid  con- 
sciousness. The  new  life  I  have  found  in  caring  for  your 
joy  and  sorrow  more  than  for  what  is  directly  my  own, 
has  transformed  the  spirit  of  rebellious  murmuring  into  that 
willing  endurance  which  is  the  birth  of  strong  sympathy. 
I  think  nothing  but  such  complete  and  intense  love  could 
have  initiated  me  into  that  enlarged  life  which  grows  and 
grows  by  appropriating  the  life  of  others  ;  for  before,  I 
was  always  dragged  back  from  it  by  ever-present  painful 
self-consciousness.  I  even  think  sometimes  that  this  gift 
of  transferred  life  which  has  come  to  me  in  loving  you, 
may  be  a  new  power  to  me. 

"Then,  dear  one,  in  spite  of  all,  you  have  been  the  bless- 
ing of  my  life.  Let  no  self-reproach  weigh  on  you  because 
of  me.  It  is  I  who  should  rather  reproach  myself  for  having 
urged  my  feelings  upon  you,  and  hurried  you  into  words  that 
you  have  felt  as  fetters.  You  meant  to  be  true  to  those  words ; 
you  have  been  true.  I  can  measure  your  sacrifice  by  what  I 
have  known  in  only  one  half-hour  of  your  presence  with  me, 
when  I  dreamed  that  you  might  love  me  best.  But,  Maggie, 
I  have  no  just  claim  on  you  for  more  than  affectionate 
remembrance. 

"  For  some  time  I  have  shrunk  from  writing  to  you,  because 
I  have  shrunk  even  from  the  appearance  of  wishing  to  thrust 
myself  before  you,  and-  so  repeating  my  original  error.  But 
you  will  not  misconstrue  me.  I  know  that  we  must  keep 
apart  for  a  long  while  ;  cruel  tongues  would  force  us  apart, 
if  nothing  else  did.  But  I  shall  not  go  away.  The  place 
where  you  are  is  the  one  where  my  mind  must  live,  where- 
ever  I  might  travel.  And  remember  that  I  am  unchange- 
ably yours,  —  yours  not  with  selfish  wishes,  but  with  a 
devotion  that  excludes  such  wishes. 


408  THE   MILL    ON   THE   FLOSS. 

"  God  comfort  you,  my  loving,  large-souled  Maggie.  If 
every  one  else  has  misconceived  you,  remember  that  you  have 
never  been  doubted  by  him  whose  heart  recognised  you  ten 
years  ago. 

"  Do  not  believe  any  one  who  says  I  am  ill,  because  I  am 
not  seen  out  of  doors.  I  have  only  had  nervous  headaches, 
—  no  worse  than  I  have  sometimes  had  them  before.  But 
the  overpowering  heat  inclines  me  to  be  perfectly  quiescent 
in  the  daytime.  I  am  strong  enough  to  obey  any  word 
which  shall  tell  me  that  I  can  serve  you  by  word  or  deed. 

"  Yours  to  the  last, 

"PHILIP  WAKEM." 

As  Maggie  knelt  by  the  bed  sobbing,  with  that  letter 
pressed  under  her,  her  feelings  again  and  again  gathered 
themselves  in  a  whispered  cry,  always  in  the  same  words,  — 

"  O  God,  is  there  any  happiness  in  love  that  could  make 
me  forget  their  pain '/  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MAGGIE   AND    LUCY. 

BY  the  end  of  the  week  Dr.  Kenn  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  there  was  only  one  way  in  which  he  could  secure  to 
Maggie  a  suitable  living  at  St.  Ogg's.  Even  with  his  twenty 
years'  experience  as  a  parish  priest,  he  was  aghast  at  the 
obstinate  continuance  of  imputations  against  her  in  the  face 
of  evidence.  Hitherto  he  had  been  rather  more  adored  and 
appealed  to  than  was  quite  agreeable  to  him ;  but  now,  in 
attempting  to  open  the  ears  of  women  to  reason,  and  their 
consciences  to  justice,  on  behalf  of  Maggie  Tulliver,  he  sud- 
denly found  himself  as  powerless  as  he  was  aware  he  would 
have  been  if  he  had  attempted  to  influence  the  shape  of  bon- 
nets. Dr.  Kenn  could  not  be  contradicted ;  he  was  listened 
to  in  silence ;  but  when  he  left  the  room,  a  comparison  of 
opinions  among  his  hearers  yielded  much  the  same  result  as 
before.  Miss  Tulliver  had  undeniably  acted  in  a  blamable 
manner,  even  Dr.  Kenn  did  not  deny  that;  how,  then,  could 
he  think  so  lightly  of  her  as  to  put  that  favourable  interpre- 
tation on  everything  she  had  done  ?  Even  on  the  supposition 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  469 

that  required  the  utmost  stretch  of  belief,  —  namely,  that  none 
of  the  things  said  about  Miss  Tulliver  were  true,  —  still,  since 
they  had  been  said  about  her,  they  had  cast  an  odour  round 
her  which  must  cause  her  to  be  shrunk  from  by  every  woman 
who  had  to  take  care  of  her  own  reputation  —  and  of  Society. 
To  have  taken  Maggie  by  the  hand  and  said,  "I  will  not 
believe  unproved  evil  of  you ;  my  lips  shall  not  utter  it ;  my 
ears  shall  be  closed  against  it ;  I,  too,  am  an  erring  mortal, 
liable  to  stumble,  apt  to  come  short  of  my  most  earnest  efforts  ; 
your  lot  has  been  harder  than  mine,  your  temptation  greater ; 
let  us  help  each  other  to  stand  and  walk  without  more  falling," 

—  to  have  done  this  would  have  demanded  courage,  deep  pity, 
self-knowledge,  generous  trust ;  would  have  demanded  a  mind 
that  tasted  no  piquancy  in  evil-speaking,  that  felt  no  self-exal- 
tation in  condemning,  that  cheated  itself  with  no  large  words 
into  the  belief  that  life  can  have  any  moral  end,  any  high 
religion,  which  excludes  the  striving  after  perfect  truth, 
justice,  and  love  towards  the  individual  men  and  women  who 
come  across  our  own  path.  The  ladies  of  St.  Ogg's  were  not 
beguiled  by  any  wide  speculative  conceptions ;  but  they  had 
their  favourite  abstraction,  called  Society,  which  served  to 
make  their  consciences  perfectly  easy  in  doing  what  satisfied 
their  own  egoism,  —  thinking  and  speaking  the  worst  of 
Maggie  Tulliver,  and  turning  their  backs  upon  her.  It  was 
naturally  disappointing  to  Dr.  Kenn,  after  two  years  of  super- 
fluous incense  from  his  feminine  parishioners,  to  find  them  sud- 
denly maintaining  their  views  in  opposition  to  his ;  but  then 
they  maintained  them  in  opposition  to  a  higher  Authority, 
which  they  had  venerated  longer.  That  Authority  had  fur- 
nished a  very  explicit  answer  to  persons  who  might  inquire 
where  their  social  duties  began,  and  might  be  inclined  to  take 
wide  views  as  to  the  starting-point.  The  answer  had  not 
turned  on  the  ultimate  good  of  Society,  but  on  "  a  certain 
man"  who  was  found  in  trouble  by  the  wayside. 

Not  that  St.  Ogg's  was  empty  of  women  with  some  tender- 
ness of  heart  and  conscience  ;  probably  it  had  as  fair  a  propor- 
tion of  human  goodness  in  it  as  any  other  small  trading  town 
of  that  day.  But  until  every  good  man  is  brave,  we  must 
expect  to  find  many  good  women  timid,  —  too  timid  even  to 
believe  in  the  correctness  of  their  own  best  promptings,  when 
these  would  place  them  in  a  minority.  And  the  men  at  St. 
Ogg's  were  not  all  brave,  by  any  means  ;  some  of  them  were 
even  fond  of  scandal,  and  to  an  extent  that  might  have  given 
their  conversation  an  effeminate  character,  if  it  had  not  been 


470  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

distinguished  by  masculine  jokes,  and  by  an  occasional  shrug 
of  the  shoulders  at  the  mutual  hatred  of  women.  It  was  tin-. 
general  feeling  of  the  masculine  mind  at  St.  Ogg's  that  women 
were  not  to  be  interfered  with  in  their  treatment  of  each 
other. 

And  thus  every  direction  in  which  Dr.  Kenn  had  turned, 
in  the  hope  of  procuring  some  kind  recognition  and  some 
employment  for  Maggie,  proved  a  disappointment  to  him. 
-Mrs.  James  Torry  could  not  think  of  taking  Maggie  as  a 
nursery  governess,  even  temporarily,  — a  young  woman  about 
whom  "such  things  had  been  said,"  and  about  whom  "gentle- 
men joked ;  "  and  Miss  Kirke,  who  had  a  spinal  complaint, 
and  wanted  a  reader  and  companion,  felt  quite  sure  that 
Maggie's  mind  must  be  of  a  quality  with  which  she,  for  her 
part,  could  not  risk  any  contact.  Why  did  not  Miss  Tulliver 
accept  the  shelter  offered  her  by  her  aunt  Glegg  ?  It  did  not 
become  a  girl  like  her  to  refuse  it.  Or  else,  why  did  she  not 
go  out  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  get  a  situation  where  she 
was  not  known  ?  (It  was  not,  apparently,  of  so  much  impor- 
tance that  she  should  carry  her  dangerous  tendencies  into 
strange  families  unknown  at  St.  Ogg's.)  She  must  be  very 
bold  and  hardened  to  wish  to  stay  in  a  parish  where  she  was 
so  much  stared  at  and  whispered  about. 

Dr.  Kenn,  having  great  natural  firmness,  began,  in  the 
presence  of  this  opposition,  as  every  firm  man  would  have 
done,  to  contract  a  certain  strength  of  determination  over 
and  above  what  would  have  been  called  forth  by  the  end  in 
view.  He  himself  wanted  a  daily  governess  for  his  younger 
children  ;  and  though  he  had  hesitated  in  the  first  instance 
to  offer  this  position  to  Maggie,  the  resolution  to  protest  with 
the  utmost  force  of  his  personal  and  priestly  character  against 
her  being  crushed  and  driven  away  by  slander,  was  now  deci- 
sive. Maggie  gratefully  accepted  an  employment  that  gave 
her  duties  as  well  as  a  support ;  her  days  would  be  filled  now, 
and  solitary  evenings  would  be  a  welcome  rest.  She  no 
longer  needed  the  sacrifice  her  mother  made  in  staying  with 
her,  and  Mrs.  Tulliver  was  persuaded  to  go  back  to  the  Mill. 

But  now  it  began  to  be  discovered  that  Dr.  Kenn,  exem- 
plary as  he  had  hitherto  appeared,  had  his  crotchets,  possibly 
his  weaknesses.  The  masculine  mind  of  St.  Ogg's  smiled 
pleasantly,  and  did  not  wonder  that  Kenn  liked  to  see  a  fine 
pair  of  eyes  daily,  or  that  he  was  inclined  to  take  so  lenient 
a  view  of  the  past;  the  feminine  mind,  regarded  at  that 
period  as  less  powerful,  took  a  more  melancholy  view  of  the 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  471 

case.  If  Dr.  Kenn  should  be  beguiled  into  marrying  that 
Miss  Tulliver  !  It  was  not  safe  to  be  too  confident,  even 
about  the  best  of  men ;  an  apostle  had  fallen,  and  wept 
bitterly  afterwards ;  and  though  Peter's  denial  was  not  a 
close  precedent,  his  repentance  was  likely  to  be. 

Maggie  had  not  taken  her  daily  walks  to  the  Rectory  for 
many  weeks,  before  the  dreadful  possibility  of  her  some  time 
or  other  becoming  the  Rector's  wife  had  been  talked  of  so 
•  It  -a  in  confidence,  that  ladies  were  beginning  to  discuss  how 
they  should  behave  to  her  in  that  position.  For  Dr.  Kenn, 
it  had  been  understood,  had  sat  in  the  schoolroom  half  an 
hour  one  morning,  when  Miss  Tulliver  was  giving  her  les- 
sons,—  nay,  he  had  sat  there  every  morning;  he  had  once 
walked  home  with  her,  —  he  almost  always  walked  home 
with  her,  —  and  if  not,  he  went  to  see  her  in  the  evening. 
What  an  artful  creature  she  was !  What  a  mother  for  those 
children !  It  was  enough  to  make  poor  Mrs.  Kenn  turn  in  her 
grave,  that  they  should  be  put  under  the  care  of  this  girl 
only  a  few  weeks  after  her  death.  Would  he  be  so  lost  to 
propriety  as  to  marry  her  before  the  year  was  out  ?  The 
masculine  mind  was  sarcastic,  and  thought  not. 

The  Miss  Guests  saw  an  alleviation  to  the  sorrow  of  wit- 
nessing a  folly  in  their  Rector  ;  at  least  their  brother  would 
be  safe  ;  and  their  knowledge  of  Stephen's  tenacity  was  a  con- 
stant ground  of  alarm  to  them,  lest  he  should  come  back  and 
marry  Maggie.  They  were  not  among  those  who  disbelieved 
their  brother's  letter ;  but  they  had  no  confidence  in  Maggie's 
adherence  to  her  renunciation  of  him  ;  they  suspected  that  she 
had  shrunk  rather  from  the  elopement  than  from  the  marriage, 
and  that  she  lingered  in  St.  Ogg's,  relying  on  his  return  to 
her.  They  had  always  thought  her  disagreeable  ;  they  now 
thought  her  artful  and  proud ;  having  quite  as  good  grounds 
for  that  judgment  as  you  and  I  probably  have  for  many  strong 
opinions  of  the  same  kind.  Formerly  they  had  not  altogether 
delighted  in  the  contemplated  match  with  Lucy,  but  now  their 
dread  of  a  marriage  between  Stephen  and  Maggie  added  its 
momentum  to  their  genuine  pity  and  indignation  on  behalf  of 
the  gentle  forsaken  girl,  in  making  them  desire  that  he  should 
return  to  her.  As  soon  as  Lucy  was  able  to  leave  home,  she 
was  to  seek  relief  from  the  oppressive  heat  of  this  August  by 
going  to  the  coast  with  the  Miss  Guests ;  and  it  was  in  their 
plans  that  Stephen  should  be  induced  to  join  them.  On  the 
very  first  hint  of  gossip  concerning  Maggie  and  Dr.  Kenn,  the 
report  was  conveyed  in  Miss  Guest's  letter  to  her  brother. 


472  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Maggie  had  frequent  tidings  through  her  mother,  or  aunt 
Glegg,  or  Dr.  Kenn,  of  Lucy's  gradual  progress  towards  recov- 
ery, and  her  thoughts  tended  continually  towards  her  uncle 
Deane's  house ;  she  hungered  for  an  interview  with  Lucy,  if  it 
were  only  for  five  minutes,  to  utter  a  word  of  penitence,  to 
be  assured  by  Lucy's  own  eyes  and  lips  that  she  did  not  be- 
lieve in  the  willing  treachery  of  those  whom  she  had  loved 
and  trusted.  But  she  knew  that  even  if  her  uncle's  indigna- 
tion had  not  closed  his  house  against  her,  the  agitation  of  such 
an  interview  would  have  been  forbidden  to  Lucy.  Only  to 
have  seen  her  without  speaking  would  have  been  some  relief ; 
for  Maggie  was  haunted  by  a  face  cruel  in  its  very  gentleness ; 
a  face  that  had  been  turned  on  hers  with  glad,  sweet  looks  of 
trust  and  love  from  the  twilight  time  of  memory;  changed 
now  to  a  sad  and  weary  face  by  a  first  heart-stroke.  And  as 
the  days  passed  on,  that  pale  image  became  more  and  more  dis- 
tinct ;  the  picture  grew  and  grew  into  more  speaking  definite- 
ness  under  the  avenging  hand  of  remorse  ;  the  soft  hazel  eyes, 
in  their  look  of  pain,  were  bent  for  ever  on  Maggie,,  and  pierced 
her  the  more  because  she  could  see  no  anger  in  them.  But 
Lucy  was  not  yet  able  to  go  to  church,  or  any  place  where 
Maggie  could  see  her;  and  even  the  hope  of  that  departed, 
when  the  news  was  told  her  by  aunt  Glegg,  that  Lucy  was 
really  going  away  in  a  few  days  to  Scarborough  with  the  Miss 
Guests,  who  had  been  heard  to  say  that  they  expected  their 
brother  to  meet  them  there. 

Only  those  who  have  known  what  hardest  inward  conflict  is, 
can  know  what  Maggie  felt  as  she  sat  in  her  loneliness  the 
evening  after  hearing  that  news  from  Mrs.  Glegg,  —  only  those 
who  have  known  what  it  is  to  dread  their  own  selfish  desires 
as  the  watching  mother  would  dread  the  sleeping-potion  that 
was  to  still  her  own  pain. 

She  sat  without  candle  in  the  twilight,  with  the  window 
wide  open  towards  the  river;  the  sense  of  oppressive  heat 
adding  itself  undistinguishably  to  the  burthen  of  her  lot. 
Seated  on  a  chair  against  the  window,  with  her  arm  on  the 
window-sill,  she  was  looking  blankly  at  the  flowing  river,  swift 
with  the  backward-rushing  tide,  struggling  to  see  still  the 
sweet  face  in  its  unreproaching  sadness,  that  seemed  now  from 
moment  to  moment  to  sink  away  and  be  hidden  behind  a  form 
that  thrust  itself  between,  and  made  darkness.  Hearing  the 
door  open,  she  thought  Mrs.  Jakin  was  coming  in  with  her  sup- 
per, as  usual ;  and  with  that  repugnance  to  trivial  speech  which 
comes  with  languor  and  wretchedness,  she  shrank  from  turn- 


THE  FINAL   RESCUE.  473 

ing  round  and  saying  she  wanted  nothing;  good  little  Mrs. 
Jakin  would  be  sure  to  make  some  well-meant  remarks.  But 
the  next  moment,  without  her  having  discerned  the  sound  of  a 
footstep,  she  felt  a  light  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  heard  a 
voice  close  to  her  saying,  "  Maggie  ! " 

The  face  was  there,  —  changed,  but  all  the  sweeter ;  the  hazel 
eyes  were  there,  with  their  heart-piercing  tenderness. 

"  Maggie ! "  the  soft  voice  said.  "  Lucy ! "  answered  a  voice 
with  a  sharp  ring  of  anguish  in  it ;  and  Lucy  threw  her  arms 
round  Maggie's  neck,  and  leaned  her  pale  cheek  against  the 
burning  brow. 

"  I  stole  out,"  said  Lucy,  almost  in  a  whisper,  while  she  sat 
down  close  to  Maggie  and  held  her  hand,  "  when  papa  and  the 
rest  were  away.  Alice  is  come  with  me.  I  asked  her  to  help 
me.  But  I  must  only  stay  a  little  while,  because  it  is  so 
late." 

It  was  easier  to  say  that  at  first  than  to  say  anything  else. 
They  sat  looking  at  each  other.  It  seemed  as  if  the  interview 
must  end  without  more  speech,  for  speech  was  very  difficult. 
Each  felt  that  there  would  be  something  scorching  in  the 
words  that  would  recall  the  irretrievable  wrong.  But  soon,  as 
Maggie  looked,  every  distinct  thought  began  to  be  overflowed 
by  a  wave  of  loving  penitence,  and  words  burst  forth  with 
a  sob. 

"  God  bless  you  for  coming,  Lucy." 

The  sobs  came  thick  on  each  other  after  that. 

"  Maggie,  dear,  be  comforted,"  said  Lucy  now,  putting  her 
cheek  against  Maggie's  again.  "  Don't  grieve."  And  she  sat 
still,  hoping  to  soothe  Maggie  with  that  gentle  caress. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  deceive  you,  Lucy,"  said  Maggie,  as  soon 
as  she  could  speak.  "  It  always  made  me  wretched  that  I  felt 
what  I  did  n't  like  you  to  know.  It  was  because  I  thought  it 
would  all  be  conquered,  and  you  might  never  see  anything  to 
wound  you. " 

"I  know,  dear,"  said  Lucy.  "I  know  you  never  meant  to 
make  me  unhappy.  It  is  a  trouble  that  has  come  on  us  all ; 
you  have  more  to  bear  than  I  have  —  and  you  gave  him  up, 
when  —  you  did  what  it  must  have  been  very  hard  to  do." 

They  were  silent  again  a  little  while,  sitting  with  clasped 
hands,  and  cheeks  leaned  together. 

"  Lucy,"  Maggie  began  again,  "  he  struggled  too.  He  wanted 
to  be  true  to  you.  He  will  come  back  to  you.  Forgive  him  — 
he  will  be  happy  then  — " 

These  words  were  wrung  forth  from  Maggie's  deepest  soul, 


474  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

with  an  effort  like  the  convulsed  clutch  of  a  drowning  man. 
Lucy  trembled  and  was  silent. 

A  gentle  knock  came  at  the  door.  It  was  Alice,  the  maid, 
who  entered  and  said, — 

"  I  dare  n't  stay  any  longer,  Miss  Deane.  They  '11  find  it 
out,  and  there  '11  be  such  anger  at  your  coming  out  so  late." 

Lucy  rose  and  said,  "  Very  well,  Alice,  —  in  a  minute." 

"  I  'in  to  go  away  on  Friday,  Maggie,"  she  added,  when  Alice 
had  closed  the  door  again.  "When  I  come  back,  and  am 
strong,  they  will  let  me  do  as  I  like.  I  shall  come  to  you 
when  I  please  then." 

"  Lucy,"  said  Maggie,  with  another  great  effort,  "  I  pray  to 
God  continually  that  I  may  never  be  the  cause  of  sorrow  tf> 
you  any  more." 

She  pressed  the  little  hand  that  she  held  between  hers,  and 
looked  up  into  the  face  that  was  bent  over  hers.  Lucy  never 
forgot  that  look. 

"  Maggie,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  that  had  the  solemnity 
of  confession  in  it,  "you  are  better  than  I  am.  I  can't  —  " 

She  broke  off  there,  and  said  no  more.  But  they  clasped 
each  other  again  in  a  last  embrace. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   LAST   CONFLICT. 

IN  the  second  week  of  September,  Maggie  was  again  sitting 
in  her  lonely  room,  battling  with  the  old  shadowy  enemies  that 
were  for  ever  slain  and  rising  again.  It  was  past  midnight, 
and  the  rain  was  beating  heavily  against  the  window,  driven 
with  fitful  force  by  the  rushing,  loud-moaning  wind.  For  the 
day  after  Lucy's  visit  there  had  been  a  sudden  change  in  the 
weather ;  the  heat  and  drought  had  given  way  to  cold  variable 
winds,  and  heavy  falls  of  rain  at  intervals ;  and  she  had  been 
forbidden  to  risk  the  contemplated  journey  until  the  weather 
should  become  more  settled.  In  the  counties  higher  up  the 
Floss  the  rains  had  been  continuous,  and  the  completion  of 
the  harvest  had  been  arrested.  And  now,  for  the  last  two  days, 
the  rains  on  this  lower  course  of  the  river  had  been  incessant, 
so  that  the  old  men  had  shaken  their  heads  and  talked  of  sixty 


THE  FINAL   RESCUE.  475 

years  ago,  when  the  same  sort  of  weather,  happening  about 
the  equinox,  brought  on  the  great  floods,  which  swept  the 
bridge  away,  and  reduced  the  town  to  great  misery.  But  the 
younger  generation,  who  had  seen  several  small  floods,  thought 
lightly  of  these  sombre  recollections  and  forebodings ;  and 
Bob  Jakin,  naturally  prone  to  take  a  hopeful  view  of  his  own 
luck,  laughed  at  his  mother  when  she  regretted  their  having 
taken  a  house  by  the  riverside,  observing  that  but  for  that 
they  would  have  had  no  boats,  which  were  the  most  lucky  of 
possessions  in  case  of  a  flood  that  obliged  them  to  go  to  a 
distance  for  food. 

But  the  careless  and  the  fearful  were  alike  sleeping  in  their 
beds  now.  There  was  hope  that  the  rain  would  abate  by  the 
morrow;  threatenings  of  a  worse  kind,  from  sudden  thaws 
after  falls  of  snow,  had  often  passed  off,  in  the  experience 
of  the  younger  ones ;  and  at  the  very  worst,  the  banks  would 
be  sure  to  break  lower  down  the  river  when  the  tide  came  in 
with  violence,  and  so  the  waters  would  be  carried  off,  withoiit 
causing  more  than  temporary  inconvenience,  and  losses  that 
would  be  felt  only  by  the  poorer  sort,  whom  charity  would 
relieve. 

All  were  in  their  beds  now,  for  it  was  past  midnight ;  all 
except  some  solitary  watchers  such  as  Maggie.  She  was 
seated  in  her  little  parlour  towards  the  river,  with  one 
candle,  that  left  everything  dim  in  the  room  except  a  letter 
which  lay  before  her  on  the  table.  That  letter,  which  had 
come  to  her  to-day,  was  one  of  the  causes  that  had  kept  her 
up  far  on  into  the  night,  unconscious  how  the  hours  were 
going,  careless  of  seeking  rest,  with  no  image  of  rest  com- 
ing across  her  mind,  except  of  that  far,  far  off  rest  from 
which  there  would  be  no  more  waking  for  her  into  this 
struggling  earthly  life. 

Two  days  before  Maggie  received  that  letter,  she  had  been 
to  the  Rectory  for  the  last  time.  The  heavy  rain  would  have 
prevented  her  from  going  since ;  but  there  was  another  reason. 
Dr.  Kenn,  at  first  enlightened  only  by  a  few  hints  as  to  the 
new  turn  which  gossip  and  slander  had  taken  in  relation  to 
Maggie,  had  recently  been  made  more  fully  aware  of  it  by 
an  earnest  remonstrance  from  one  of  his  male  parishioners 
against  the  indiscretion  of  persisting  in  the  attempt  to 
overcome  the  prevalent  feeling  in  the  parish  by  a  course  of 
resistance.  Dr.  Kenn,  having  a  conscience  void  of  offence  in 
the  matter,  was  still  inclined  to  persevere,  —  was  still  averse 
to  give  way  before  a  public  sentiment  that  was  odious  and  con- 


476  THE  MILL   ON  THE  FLOSS. 

temptible ;  but  he  was  finally  wrought  upon  by  the  considera- 
tion of  the  peculiar  responsibility  attached  to  his  office,  of 
avoiding  the  appearance  of  evil, — an  "appearance"  that  is  al- 
ways dependent  on  the  average  quality  of  surrounding  minds. 
Where  these  minds  are  low  and  gross,  the  area  of  that  "  ap- 
pearance "  is  proportionately  widened.  Perhaps  he  was  in 
danger  of  acting  from  obstinacy;  perhaps  it  was  his  duty 
to  succumb.  Conscientious  people  are  apt  to  see  their  duty 
in  that  which  is  the  most  painful  course ;  and  to  recede  was 
always  painful  to  Dr.  Kenn.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
must  advise  Maggie  to  go  away  from  St.  Ogg's  for  a  time ; 
and  he  performed  that  difficult  task  with  as  much  delicacy 
as  he  could,  only  stating  in  vague  terms  that  he  found  his  at- 
tempt to  countenance  her  stay  was  a  source  of  discord  between 
himself  and  his  parishioners,  that  was  likely  to  obstruct  his 
usefulness  as  a  clergyman.  He  begged  her  to  allow  him  to 
write  to  a  clerical  friend  of  his,  who  might  possibly  take  her 
into  his  own  family  as  governess ;  and,  if  not,  would  probably 
know  of  some  other  available  position  for  a  young  woman  in 
whose  welfare  Dr.  kenn  felt  a  strong  interest. 

Poor  Maggie  listened  with  a  trembling  lip ;  she  could  say 
nothing  but  a  faint  "Thank  you,  I  shall  be  grateful;"  and 
she  walked  back  to  her  lodgings,  through  the  driving  rain, 
with  a  new  sense  of  desolation.  She  must  be  a  lonely  wan- 
derer ;  she  must  go  out  among  fresh  faces,  that  would  look  at 
her  wonderingly,  because  the  days  did  not  seem  joyful  to  her ; 
she  must  begin  a  new  life,  in  which  she  would  have  to  rouse 
herself  to  receive  new  impressions ;  and  she  was  so  unspeak- 
ably, sickeningly  weary !  There  was  no  home,  no  help  for  the 
erring;  even  those  who  pitied  were  constrained  to  hardness. 
But  ought  she  to  complain  ?  Ought  she  to  shrink  in  this  way 
from  the  long  penance  of  life,  which  was  all  the  possibility 
.she  had  of  lightening  the  load  to  some  other  sufferers,  and  so 
changing  that  passionate  error  into  a  new  force  of  unselfish 
human  love  ?  All  the  next  day  she  sat  in  her  lonely  room, 
with  a  window  darkened  by  the  cloxid  and  the  driving  rain, 
thinking  of  that  future,  and  wrestling  for  patience ;  for  what 
repose  could  poor  Maggie  ever  win  except  by  wrestling  ? 

And  on  the  third  day  —  this  day  of  which  she  had  just  sat 
out  the  close  —  the  letter  had  come  which  was  lying  on  the 
table  before  her. 

The  letter  was  from  Stephen.  He  was  come  back  from 
Holland;  he  was  at  Mudport  again,  unknown  to  any  of  his 
friends,  and  had  written  to  her  from  that  place,  enclosing 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  477 

the  letter  to  a  person  whom  he  trusted  in  St.  Ogg's.  From 
beginning  to  end  it  was  a  passionate  cry  of  reproach ;  an  ap- 
peal against  her  useless  sacrifice  of  him,  of  herself,  against 
that  perverted  notion  of  right  which  led  her  to  crush  all  his 
hopes,  for  the  sake  of  a  mere  idea,  and  not  any  substantial 
good,  —  his  hopes,  whom  she  loved,  and  who  loved  her  with 
that  single  overpowering  passion,  that  worship,  which  a  man 
never  gives  to  a  woman  more  than  once  in  his  life. 

"  They  have  written  to  me  that  you  are  to  marry  Kenu.  As 
if  I  should  believe  that !  Perhaps  they  have  told  you  some 
such  fables  about  me.  Perhaps  they  tell  you  I  've  been  '  trav- 
elling.' My  body  has  been  dragged  about  somewhere ;  but  / 
have  never  travelled  from  the  hideous  place  where  you  left 
me ;  where  I  started  up  from  the  stupor  of  helpless  rage  to 
find  you  gone. 

"  Maggie  !  whose  pain  can  have  been  like  mine  ?  Whose 
injury  is  like  mine  ?  Who  besides  me  has  met  that  long  look 
of  love  that  has  burnt  itself  into  my  soul,  so  that  no  other  im- 
age can  come  there  ?  Maggie,  call  me  back  to  you  !  Call  me 
back  to  life  and  goodness  !  I  am  banished  from  both  now.  I 
have  no  motives  ;  I  am  indifferent  to  everything.  Two  months 
have  only  deepened  the  certainty  that  I  can  never  care  for  life 
without  you.  Write  me  one  word ;  say  '  Come  ! '  In  two  days 
I  should  be  with  you.  Maggie,  have  you  forgotten  what  it  was 
to  be  together,  —  to  be  within  reach  of  a  look,  to  be  within 
hearing  of  each  other's  voice  ?  " 

When  Maggie  first  read  this  letter  she  felt  as  if  her  real 
temptation  had  only  just  begun.  At  the  entrance  of  the  chill 
dark  cavern,  we  turn  with  unworn  courage  from  the  warm 
light ;  but  how,  when  we  have  trodden  far  in  the  damp  dark- 
ness, and  have  begun  to  be  faint  and  weary ;  how,  if  there  is 
a  sudden  opening  above  us,  and  we  are  invited  back  again  to 
the  life-nourishing  day  ?  The  leap  of  natural  longing  from 
under  the  pressure  of  pain  is  so  strong,  that  all  less  imme- 
diate motives  are  likely  to  be  forgotten  —  till  the  pain  has 
been  escaped  from. 

For  hours  Maggie  felt  as  if  her  struggle  had  been  in  vain. 
For  hours  every  other  thought  that  she  strove  to  summon  was 
thrust  aside  by  the  image  of  Stephen  waiting  for  the  single 
word  that  would  bring  him  to  her.  She  did  not  read  the 
letter;  she  heard  him  uttering  it,  and  the  voice  shook  her 
with  its  old  strange  power.  All  the  day  before  she  had  been 
filled  with  the  vision  of  a  lonely  future  through  which  she 
must  carry  the  burthen  of  regret,  upheld  only  by  clinging 


478  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

faith.  And  here,  close  within  her  reach,  urging  itself  upon 
her  even  as  a  claim,  was  another  future,  in  which  hard  en- 
durance and  effort  were  to  be  exchanged  for  easy,  delicious 
leaning  on  another's  loving  strength  !  And  yet  that  promise 
of  joy  in  the  place  of  sadness  did  not  make  the  dire  force  of 
the  temptation  to  Maggie.  It  was  Stephen's  tone  of  misery, 
it  was  the  doubt  in  the  justice  of  her  own  resolve,  that  made 
the  balance  tremble,  and  made  her  once  start  from  her  seat  to 
reach  the  pen  and  paper,  and  write  "  Come  ! " 

But  close  upon  that  decisive  act,  her  mind  recoiled ;  and  the 
sense  of  contradiction  with  her  past  self  in  her  moments  of 
strength  and  clearness  came  upon  her  like  a  pang  of  conscious 
degradation.  No,  she  must  wait ;  she  must  pray ;  the  light 
that  had  forsaken  her  would  come  again  ;  she  should  feel  again 
what  she  had  felt  when  she  had  fled  away,  under  an  inspira- 
tion strong  enough  to  conquer  agony,  —  to  conquer  love ;  she 
should  feel  again  what  she  had  felt  when  Lucy  stood  by  her, 
when  Philip's  letter  had  stirred  all  the  fibres  that  bound  her 
to  the  calmer  past. 

She  sat  quite  still,  far  on  into  the  night,  with  no  impulse  to 
change  her  attitude,  without  active  force  enough  even  for  the 
mental  act  of  prayer;  only  waiting  for  the  light  that  would 
surely  come  again.  It  came  with  the  memories  that  no  pas- 
sion could  long  quench  ;  the  long  past  came  back  to  her,  and 
with  it  the  fountains  of  self-renouncing  pity  and  affection, 
of  faithfulness  and  resolve.  The  words  that  were  marked 
by  the  quiet  hand  in  the  little  old  book  that  she  had  long 
ago  learned  by  heart,  rushed  even  to  her  lips,  and  found  a 
vent  for  themselves  in  a  low  murmur  that  was  quite  lost  in 
the  loud  driving  of  the  rain  against  the  window  and  the 
loud  moan  and  roar  of  the  wind.  "  I  have  received  the  Cross, 
I  have  received  it  from  Thy  hand  ;  I  will  bear  it,  and  bear  it 
till  death,  as  Thou  hast  laid  it  upon  me." 

But  soon  other  words  rose  that  could  find  no  utterance  but 
in  a  sob,  —  "  Forgive  me,  Stephen !  It  will  pass  away.  You 
will  come  back  to  her." 

She  took  up  the  letter,  held  it  to  the  candle,  and  let  it 
burn  slowly  on  the  hearth.  To-morrow  she  would  write  to 
him  the  last  word  of  parting. 

"  I  will  bear  it,  and  bear  it  till  death.  But  how  long  it  will 
be  before  death  comes !  I  am  so  young,  so  healthy.  How 
shall  I  have  patience  and  strength  ?  Am  I  to  struggle  and 
fall  and  repent  again?  Has  life  other  trials  as  hard  for 
me  still?" 


THE   FINAL   RESCUE.  479 

With  that  cry  of  self-despair,  Maggie  fell  on  her  knees 
against  the  table,  and  buried  her  sorrow-stricken  face.  Her 
soul  went  out  to  the  Unseen  Pity  that  would  be  with  her  to 
the  end.  Surely  there  was  something  being  taught  her  by 
this  experience  of  great  need ;  and  she  must  be  learning  a 
secret  of  human  tenderness  and  long-suffering,  that  the  less 
erring  could  hardly  know  ?  "0  God,  if  my  life  is  to  be  long, 
let  me  live  to  bless  and  comfort  —  " 

At  that  moment  Maggie  felt  a  startling  sensation  of  sudden 
cold  about  her  knees  and  feet ;  it  was  water  flowing  under  her. 
She  started  up;  the  stream  was  flowing  under  the  door  that 
led  into  the  passage.  She  was  not  bewildered  for  an  instant ; 
she  knew  it  was  the  flood ! 

The  tumult  of  emotion  she  had  been  enduring  for  the  last 
twelve  hours  seemed  to  have  left  a  great  calm  in  her ;  with- 
out screaming,  she  hurried  with  the  caudle  up-stairs  to  Bob 
Jakin's  bedroom.  The  door  was  ajar ;  she  went  in  and  shook 
him  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Bob,  the  flood  is  come !  it  is  in  the  house  !  let  us  see  if  we 
can  make  the  boats  safe." 

She  lighted  his  candle,  while  the  poor  wife,  snatching  up 
her  baby,  burst  into  screams ;  and  then  she  hurried  down 
again  to  see  if  the  waters  were  rising  fast.  There  was  a 
step  down  into  the  room  at  the  door  leading  from  the  stair- 
case ;  she  saw  that  the  water  was  already  on  a  level  with 
the  step.  While  she  was  looking,  something  came  with  a 
tremendous  crash  against  the  window,  and  sent  the  leaded 
panes  and  the  old  wooden  framework  inwards  in  shivers, 
the  water  pouring  in  after  it. 

"  It  is  the  boat !  "  cried  Maggie.  "  Bob,  come  down  to  <s;et 
the  boats ! " 

And  without  a  moment's  shudder  of  fear,  she  plunged 
through  the  water,  which  was  rising  fast  to  her  knees,  and 
by  the  glimmering  light  of  the  candle  she  had  left  on  the 
stairs,  she  mounted  on  to  the  window-sill,  and  crept  into  the 
boat,  which  was  left  with  the  prow  lodging  and  protruding 
through  the  window.  Bob  was  not  long  after  her,  hurrying 
without  shoes  or  stockings,  but  with  the  lanthorn  in  his 
hand. 

"  Why,  they  're  both  here,  —  both  the  boats,"  said  Bob,  as 
he  got  into  the  one  where  Maggie  was.  "  It 's  wonderful  this 
fastening  is  n't  broke  too,  as  well  as  the  mooring." 

In  the  excitement  of  getting  into  the  other  boat,  unfastening 
it,  and  mastering  an  oar,  Bob  was  not  struck  with  the  danger 


480  THE   MILL    UX    Till: 

Maggie  incurred.  We  are  not  apt  to  fear  for  the  fean 
when  we  are  companions  in  their  danger,  and  Bob's  mind 
was  absorbed  in  possible  expedients  for  the  safety  of  the' 
helpless  indoors.  The  fact  that  Maggie  had  been  up,  had 
waked  him,  and  had  taken  the  lead  in  activity,  gave  Bob 
a  vague  impression  of  her  as  one  who  would  help  to  pro- 
tect, not  need  to  be  protected.  She  too  had  got  possession 
of  an  oar,  and  had  pushed  off,  so  as  to  release  the  boat 
from  the  overhanging  window-frame. 

"  The  water 's  rising  so  fast,"  said  Bob,  "  I  doubt  it  '11  be  in 
at  the  chambers  before  long,  —  th'  house  is  so  low.  I  've 
more  mind  to  get  Prissy  and  the  child  and  the  mother  into 
the  boat,  if  I  could,  and  trusten  to  the  water,  —  for  th'  old 
house  is  none  so  safe.  And  if  I  let  go  the  boat  —  but  you," 
he  exclaimed,  suddenly  lifting  the  light  of  his  lanthorn  on 
Maggie,  as  she  stood  in  the  rain  with  the  oar  in  her  hand 
and  her  black  hair  streaming. 

Maggie  had  no  time  to  answer,  for  a  new  tidal  current 
swept  along  the  line  of  the  houses,  and  drove  both  the 
boats  out  on  to  the  wide  water,  with  a  force  that  carried 
them  far  past  the  meeting  current  of  the  river. 

In  the  first  moments  Maggie  felt  nothing,  thought  of  noth- 
ing, but  that  she  had  suddenly  passed  away  from  that  life 
which  she  had  been  dreading ;  it  was  the  transition  of  death, 
without  its  agony,  —  and  she  was  alone  in  the  darkness  with 
God. 

The  whole  thing  had  been  so  rapid,  so  dreamlike,  that  the 
threads  of  ordinary  association  were  broken;  she  sank  down. 
on  the  seat  clutching  the  oar  mechanically,  and  for  a  long 
while  had  no  distinct  conception  of  her  position.  The  first 
thing  that  waked  her  to  fuller  consciousness  was  the  cessation 
of  the  rain,  and  a  perception  that  the  darkness  was  divided 
by  the  faintest  light,  which  parted  the  overhanging  gloom 
from  the  immeasurable  watery  level  below.  She  was  driven 
out  upon  the  flood,  —  that  awful  visitation  of  God  which 
her  father  used  to  talk  of;  which  had  made  the  nightmare1 
of  her  childish  dreams.  And  with  that  thought  there  rushedi 
in  the  vision  of  the  old  home,  and  Tom,  and  her  mother,  — 
they  had  all  listened  together. 

"  0  God,  where  am  I  ?  Which  is  the  way  home  ? "  she 
cried  out,  in  the  dim  loneliness. 

What  was  happening  to  them  at  the  Mill  ?  The  flood  had 
once  nearly  destroyed  it.  They  might  be  in  danger,  in  dis- 
tress, —  her  mother  and  her  brother,  alone  there,  beyond  reach 


THE  FINAL  RESCUE.  481 

of  help !  Her  whole  soul  was  strained  now  on  that  thought ; 
and  she  saw  the  long-loved  faces  looking  for  help  into  the 
darkness,  and  finding  none. 

She  was  floating  in  smooth  water  now,  —  perhaps  far  on  the 
over-flooded  fields.  There  was  no  sense  of  present  danger  to 
check  the  outgoing  of  her  rnind  to  the  old  home  ;  and  she 
strained  her  eyes  against  the  curtain  of  gloom  that  she  might 
seize  the  first  sight  of  her  whereabout,  —  that  she  might  catch 
some  faint  suggestion  of  the  spot  towards  which  all  her  anxie* 
ties  tended. 

Oh,  how  welcome,  the  widening  of  that  dismal  watery  level, 
the  gradual  uplifting  of  the  cloudy  firmament,  the  slowly  de- 
fining blackness  of  objects  above  the  glassy  dark !  Yes,  she 
must  be  out  on  the  fields  ;  those  were  the  tops  of  hedgerow 
trees.  Which  way  did  the  river  lie  ?  Looking  behind  her, 
she  saw  the  lines  of  black  trees;  looking  before  her,  there 
were  none ;  then  the  river  lay  before  her.  She  seized  an  oar 
and  began  to  paddle  the  boat  forward  with  the  energy  of  wak- 
ening hope  ;  the  dawning  seemed  to  advance  more  swiftly, 
now  she  was  in  action  ;  and  she  could  soon  see  the  poor  dumb 
beasts  crowding  piteously  on  a  mound  where  they  had  taken 
refuge.  Onward  she  paddled  and  rowed  by  turns  in  the  grow- 
ing twilight ;  her  wet  clothes  clung  round  her,  and  her  stream- 
ing hair  was  dashed  about  by  the  wind,  but  she  was  hardly 
conscious  of  any  bodily  sensations,  —  except  a  sensation  of 
strength,  inspired  by  mighty  emotion.  Along  with  the  sense 
of  danger  and  possible  rescue  for  those  long-remembered 
beings  at  the  old  home,  there  was  an  undefined  sense  of  recon- 
cilement with  her  brother ;  what  quarrel,  what  harshness, 
what  unbelief  in  each  other  can  subsist  in  the  presence  of 
a  great  calamity,  when  all  the  artificial  vesture  of  our  life  is 
gone,  and  we  are  all  one  with  each  other  in  primitive  mortal 
needs  ?  Vaguely  Maggie  felt  this,  in  the  strong  resurgent 
love  towards  her  brother  that  swept  away  all  the  later  impres- 
sions of  hard,  cruel  offence  and  misunderstanding,  and  left 
only  the  deep,  underlying,  unshakable  memories  of  early 
union. 

But  now  there  was  a  large  dark  mass  in  the  distance,  and 
near  to  her  Maggie  could  discern  the  current  of  the  river. 
The  dark  mass  must  be  —  yes,  it  was  —  St.  Ogg's.  Ah,  now 
she  knew  which  way  to  look  for  the  first  glimpse  of  the  well- 
known  trees  —  the  grey  willows,  the  now  yellowing  chestnuts 
—  and  above  them  the  old  roof !  But  there  was  no  colour,  no 
shape  yet;  all  was  faint  and  dim.  More  and  more  strongly 

si 


482  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

the  energies  seemed  to  come  and  put  themselves  forth,  as  if 
her  life  were  a  stored-up  force  that  was  being  spent  in  this 
hour,  unneeded  for  any  future. 

She  must  get  her  boat  into  the  current  of  the  Floss,  else  she 
would  never  be  able  to  pass  the  Ripple  and  approach  the 
house ;  this  was  the  thought  that  occurred  to  her,  as  she 
imagined  with  more  and  more  vividness  the  state  of  things 
round  the  old  home.  But  then  she  might  be  carried  very  far 
down,  and  be  unable  to  guide  her  boat  out  of  the  current 
again.  For  the  first  time  distinct  ideas  of  danger  began  to 
press  upon  her ;  but  there  was  no  choice  of  courses,  no  room 
for  hesitation,  and  she  floated  into  the  current.  Swiftly  she 
went  now  without  effort ;  more  and  more  clearly  in  the  lessen- 
ing distance  and  the  growing  light  she  began  to  discern  the 
objects  that  she  knew  must  be  the  well-known  trees  and  roofs  ; 
nay,  she  was  not  far  off  a  rushing,  muddy  current  that  must  be 
the  strangely  altered  Ripple. 

Great  God !  there  were  floating  masses  in  it,  that  might 
dash  against  her  boat  as  she  passed,  and  cause  her  to  perish 
too  soon.  What  were  those  masses  ? 

For  the  first  time  Maggie's  heart  began  to  beat  in  an  agony 
of  dread.  She  sat  helpless,  dimly  conscious  that  she  was 
being  floated  along,  more  intensely  conscious  of  the  antici- 
pated clash.  But  the  horror  was  transient;  it  passed  away 
before  the  oncoming  warehouses  of  St.  Ogg's.  She  had  passed 
the  mouth  of  the  Ripple,  then  ;  now,  she  must  use  all  her  skill 
and  power  to  manage  the  boat  and  get  it  if  possible  out  of  the 
current.  She  could  see  now  that  the  bridge  was  broken  down ; 
she  could  see  the  masts  of  a  stranded  vessel  far  out  over  the 
watery  field.  But  no  boats  were  to  be  seen  moving  on  the 
river,  —  such  as  had  been  laid  hands  on  were  employed  in 
the  flooded  streets. 

With  new  resolution,  Maggie  seized  her  oar,  and  stood  up 
again  to  paddle ;  but  the  now  ebbing  tide  added  to  the  swift- 
ness of  the  river,  and  she  was  carried  along  beyond  the  bridge. 
She  could  hear  shouts  from  the  windows  overlooking  the  river, 
as  if  the  people  there  were  calling  to  her.  It  was  not  till  she 
had  passed  on  nearly  to  Tofton  that  she  could  get  the  boat 
clear  of  the  current.  Then  with  one  yearning  look  towards  her 
uncle  Deane's  house  that  lay  farther  down  the  river,  she  took 
to  both  her  oars  and  rowed  with  all  her  might  across  the  watery 
fields,  back  towards  the  Mill.  Colour  was  beginning  to  awake 
now,  and  as  she  approached  the  Dorlcote  fields,  she  could  dis- 
cern the  tints  of  the  trees,  could  see  the  old  Scotch  firs  far 


THE   FINAL  RESCUE.  483 

to  the  right,  and  the  home  chestnuts,  —  oh,  how  deep  they  lay 
in  the  water,  —  deeper  than  the  trees  on  this  side  the  hill !  And 
the  roof  of  the  Mill  —  where  was  it  ?  Those  heavy  frag- 
ments hurrying  down  the  Kipple,  —  what  had  they  meant  ? 
But  it  was  not  the  house,  —  the  house  stood  firm  ;  drowned  up 
to  the  first  storey,  but  still  firm,  —  or  was  it  broken  in  at  the 
end  towards  the  Mill  ? 

With  panting  joy  that  she  was  there  at  last,  —  joy  that  over 
came  all  distress,  —  Maggie  neared  the  front  of  the  house.  At 
first  she  heard  no  sound ;  she  saw  no  object  moving.  Her  boat 
was  on  a  level  with  the  up-stairs  window.  She  called  out  in  a 
loud,  piercing  voice,  — 

"  Tom,  where  are  you  ?  Mother,  where  are  you  ?  Here  is 
Maggie ! " 

Soon,  from  the  window  of  the  attic  in  the  central  gable,  she 
heard  Tom's  voice,  — 

"  Who  is  it  ?     Have  you  brought  a  boat  ?  " 

"  It  is  I,  Tom,  —  Maggie.     Where  is  mother  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  here ;  she  went  to  Garum  the  day  before  yes- 
terday. I  '11  come  down  to  the  lower  window." 

"  Alone,  Maggie  ?  "  said  Tom,  in  a  voice  of  deep  astonish 
ment,  as  he  opened  the  middle  window,  on  a  level  with  the 
boat. 

"  Yes,  Tom ;  God  has  taken  care  of  me,  to  bring  me  to  you. 
Get  in  quickly.  Is  there  no  one  else  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Tom,  stepping  into  the  boat,  "  I  fear  the  man  is 
drowned ;  he  was  carried  down  the  Ripple,  I  think,  when  part 
of  the  Mill  fell  with  the  crash  of  trees  and  stones  against 
it;  I've  shouted  again  and  again,  and  there  has  been  no 
answer.  Give  me  the  oars,  Maggie." 

It  was  not  till  Tom  had  pushed  off  and  they  were  on  the 
wide  water, — he  face  to  face  with  Maggie, — that  the  full 
meaning  of  what  had  happened  rushed  upon  his  mind.  It 
came  with  so  overpowering  a  force,  —  it  was  such  a  new  reve- 
lation to  his  spirit,  of  the  depths  in  life  that  had  lain  beyond 
his  vision,  which  he  had  fancied  so  keen  and  clear,  —  that  he 
was  unable  to  ask  a  question.  They  sat  mutely  gazing  at  each 
other,  —  Maggie  with  eyes  of  intense  life  looking  out  from  a 
weary,  beaten  face  ;  Tom  pale,  with  a  certain  awe  and  humil- 
iation. Thought  was  busy  though  the  lips  were  silent;  and 
though  he  could  ask  no  question,  he  guessed  a  story  of  almost 
miraculous,  divinely  protected  effort.  But  at  last  a  mist  gath- 
ered over  the  blue-grey  eyes,  and  the  lips  found  a  word  they 
could  utter,  —  the  old  childish  "  Magsie  ! " 


484  THE  MILL   ON   THE  FLOSS. 

Maggie  could  make  no  answer  but  a  long,  deep  sob  of  that 
mysterious,  wondrous  happiness  that  is  one  with  pain. 

As  soon  as  she  could  speak,  she  said,  "  We  will  go  to  Lucy, 
Tom ;  we  '11  go  and  see  if  she  is  safe,  and  then  we  can  help 
the  rest." 

Tom  rowed  with  untired  vigour,  and  with  a  different  speed 
from  poor  Maggie's.  The  boat  was  soon  in  the  current  of  the 
river  again,  and  soon  they  would  be  at  Tofton. 

"  Park  House  stands  high  up  out  of  the  flood,"  said  Maggie. 
"  Perhaps  they  have  got  Lucy  there." 

Nothing  else  was  said;  a  new  danger  was  being  carried 
towards  them  by  the  river.  Some  wooden  machinery  had  just 
given  \ray  on  one  of  the  wharves,  and  huge  fragments  were 
being  floated  along.  The  sun  was  rising  now,  and  the  wide 
area  of  watery  desolation  was  spread  out  in  dreadful  clearness 
uround  them ;  in  dreadful  clearness  floated  nwards  the  hur- 
rying, threatening  masses.  A  large  company  in  a  boat  that 
was  working  its  way  along  under  the  Tofton  houses  observed 
their  danger,  and  shouted,  "  Get  out  of  the  current ! " 

But  that  could  not  be  done  at  once ;  and  Tom,  looking  before 
him,  saw  death  rushing  on  them.  Huge  fragments,  clinging 
together  in  fatal  fellowship,  made  one  wide  mass  across  the 
stream. 

"  It  is  coming,  Maggie  !  "  Tom  said,  in  a  deep,  hoarse  voice, 
loosing  the  oars,  and  clasping  her. 

The  next  instant  the  boat  was  no  longer  seen  upon  the 
water,  and  the  huge  mass  was  hurrying  on  in  hideous 
triumph. 

But  soon  the  keel  of  the  boat  reappeared,  a  black  speck  on 
the  golden  water. 

The  boat  reappeared,  but  brother  and  sister  had  gone  down 
in  an  embrace  never  to  be  parted ;  living  through  again  in  one 
supreme  moment  the  days  when  they  had  clasped  their  little 
hands  in  love,  and  roamed  the  daisied  fields  together. 


CONCLUSION.  485 


CONCLUSION. 


NATURE  repairs  her  ravages,  —  repairs  them  with  her  sun- 
shine, and  with  human  labour.  The  desolation  wrought  by 
that  flood  had  left  little  visible  trace  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
five  years  after.  The  fifth  autumn  was  rich  in  golden  corn- 
stacks,  rising  in  thick  clusters  among  the  distant  hedge- 
rows ;  the  wharves  and  warehouses  on  the  Floss  were  busy 
again,  with  echoes  of  eager  voices,  with  hopeful  lading  and 
unlading. 

And  every  man  and  woman  mentioned  in  this  history  was 
still  living,  except  those  whose  end  we  know. 

Nature  repairs  her  ravages,  but  not  all.  The  uptorn  trees 
are  not  rooted  again ;  the  parted  hills  are  left  scarred ;  if 
there  is  a  new  growth,  the  trees  are  not  the  same  as  the  old, 
and  the  hills  underneath  their  green  vesture  bear  the  marks  of 
the  past  rending.  To  the  eyes  that  have  dwelt  on  the  past, 
there  is  no  thorough  repair. 

Dorlcote  Mill  was  rebuilt.  And  Dorlcote  churchyard  — 
where  the  brick  grave  that  held  a  father  whom  we  know,  was 
found  with  the  stone  laid  prostrate  upon  it  after  the  flood  — 
had  recovered  all  its  grassy  order  and  decent  quiet. 

Near  that  brick  grave  there  was  a  tomb  erected,  very  soon 
after  the  flood,  for  two  bodies  that  were  found  in  close  em- 
brace ;  and  it  was  visited  at  different  moments  by  two  men 
who  both  felt  that  their  keenest  joy  and  keenest  sorrow  were 
for  ever  buried  there. 

One  of  them  visited  the  tomb  again  with  a  sweet  face  beside 
him  ;  but  that  was  years  after. 

The  other  was  always  solitary.  His  great  companionship 
was  among  the  trees  of  the  Red  Deeps,  where  the  buried 
joy  seemed  still  to  hover,  like  a  revisiting  spirit. 

The  tomb  bore  the  names  of  Tom  and  Maggie  Tulliver,  and 
below  the  names  it  was  written,  — 

"  In  their  death  they  were  not  divided." 


THE    END. 


JAN  2  7  1986 


IIIIUUIll  11111  111""' 

A     000  563  877     0 


